


In All the Old Stories

by Habur



Category: The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mistaken Identity, Political Alliances, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:27:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 144,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28510419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Habur/pseuds/Habur
Summary: When revolutionary leader Achilles requests a painting of the most beautiful man in Troy, Patroclus is roped into posing for the portrait as a cruel trick. It backfires, resulting in him being sent to meet Achilles under a different identity. Amid a tumultuous foreign court, he finds himself further entangled in a web of secrets, lies, and a life he was never prepared for.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Comments: 291
Kudos: 332





	1. Chapter 1

It was Paris’ fault.   
\---

Another unpredictably snowy day in Troy, where the winters could be no more severe than the winds of spring - today was not the case. 

Patroclus sat watching the flurry drift down over the windowpane, craning his neck to examine each individual snowflake. They were supposed to be different. No one exactly as the other, like fingerprints. At least, that was what Polyxena said. He shook his head in dismay, watching each flake landing on the windowpane and melting into a muddled mess. He would have to take her for her word. 

Sometimes he missed her. And other times, he hoped she would stay away. Stay on her studies abroad, so she could write him letters telling him things like what she had told him about the snowflakes. And he would write her back, honest enough to keep her satisfied but still managing to deflect the real questions.

It was funny. She was Paris’ complete opposite. Yet, there was something about her bright, open-minded presence that brought out the worst in the man. If there had ever been anything remotely resembling family in Priam’s once-great house, Patroclus had not been around long enough to see it. And he had been here for a long, long, time. So much that he often forgot what life was like outside the court.

“Patroclus!! By Hestia, how many times do I have to scream your name?” 

“No need to bring it to the gods’ attention, Evander,” Patroclus sighed, barely turning around to glance at the chief attendant. 

There was a brief moment of silence, where he could almost hear the frown lines deepening on Evander’s face. 

“He wants you.”

Patroclus sat at the windowsill and did not move. 

“Go on. Might as well see what he wants.” 

“Might as well,” he gritted out. 

A few seconds, and he got up with stiff limbs. His feet were heavy the way they always were when Paris called for him. He met Evander’s eyes, and could see a touch of sympathy there. Things just didn’t change.  
\---

The servants were gathered around the main courtyard, whispering excitedly as they bustled around. He paused and tried to listen in. It was always worth knowing what they gossiped about, even the sillier things like whose cousin was sleeping with whom or which goose the farmer had killed. 

Talk of the events in Hellas had been nonstop for months. Patroclus didn’t know what to think of it anymore. He didn’t even think King Priam did. 

Surely they had seen it coming. But no one had really expected the revolution in Hellas to succeed. Especially when they got wind of who its members were, who led it. Rowdy commoners, no more than that. Easily dismissed. 

It had been a real shock when King Priam was woken up in the middle of the night; a messenger telling him that the House of Atreus had fallen. 

All those people. Patroclus remembered a distant time, when the royal children of the Atreidae had come for a visit in Troy. He had been rather little, then. He hadn’t been allowed to interact with them, but he’d stayed in Paris’ room and listened to the sounds of play and laughter outside. 

There had been one boy, Orestes. And two - no, three girls. He couldn’t remember all of them, but one of them had been his age. She’d smiled at him in the hallway and he’d found out her name was Iphigenia, and thought it so pretty. 

She was gone now. Gone and dead. They all were. When he tried to fathom it in his mind, he found he couldn’t. It left a sort of sick feeling inside, saddened for people he hadn’t really known.   
\---

Paris was smiling when Patroclus reached the courtyard. It was always a bad sign. 

Even now, when they were both grown up, the sight of the prince still made his stomach tighten. He wasn’t afraid of Paris. No, he refused to entertain the thought. 

“Come here, Patroclus,” Paris ordered. He was never authoritative the way his brothers were. He spoke in a voice like silk, always conversational. Yet, Patroclus knew better than to disobey. 

“This is my father’s ward,” the prince added, addressing someone else in the room. 

Patroclus hadn’t even noticed the other person, a nervous courtier in a rather ridiculous-looking robe. He stared in confusion. The courtier stared back, clutching a wooden box to his chest. 

“Your highness, I don’t think -”

“No no,” Paris cut in, taking Patroclus by the shoulders and whirling him around. His cheek was leaning against him, and Patroclus could practically feel him grinning. 

“Your so-called leader wants to see Troy’s greatest beauty, does he not? What better suited for him than this?” 

Patroclus felt his insides clench. What was Paris playing at? 

“The great Achilles has commissioned a painting of _you_ , your highness,” the courtier replied, voice wavering in anxiousness. His eyes darted between Paris and Patroclus, blinking rapidly.

_Fuck_. Patroclus tried to pull away from Paris’ grasp, but the prince held him tight. 

It had been a possibility from the start. The entire court had been whispering about it, ever since the victory of the revolution had become reality. Priam had sent out messenger after messenger, inquiring the name of the man who had led the revolution. The man who’d single-handedly overthrown the monarchy, who’d given the order for the House of Atreus’ line to be ended. 

Achilles Pelides, who called himself the people’s shepherd. A nobody from the outskirts of Hellas, they had learned. How he had risen to the top remained a mystery. How a mere commoner had overturned the Hellenic government had been a source of investigation and outrage among the aristocracy. 

And for months, Troy had been waiting in the wings, wondering what the man’s next move would be. Would he declare war because they had been an ally of the House of Atreus? Or would he seek to strengthen the alliance, to consolidate his rule over Hellas? 

It seemed a decision had been made. 

“Tales of your highness’ beauty have reached the court of Hellas -”

“And your esteemed leader wants a look at the merchandise.” Paris’ smile had faded into a smirk, and it seemed to make the painter even more nervous. 

“And of course, my dear father must have jumped at the chance. Kissing Hellas’ arse has always been his favorite thing to do.”

“Paris!” Patroclus exclaimed. He collected himself when the prince glared at him.   
“Your highness … what do you think you’re doing?” he asked instead, lowering his voice. 

Paris didn’t answer for a moment. Then he steered Patroclus away, keeping his lips at his ear so the painter wouldn’t hear.   
“Father must be delusional if he thinks he can move me around like prize goods, especially for that _commoner scum_. I would rather suck a diseased prick than accept courtship from that Hellene goatfucker -”

“Shh!” Patroclus voiced; Paris was getting louder as he became more agitated.   
“Who says anything about courtship? All he wants is your painting.” 

Paris leaned back. “By Hestia, Patroclus. You never fail to stun me with your stupidity.” 

Patroclus ignored it. He had always ignored Paris’ insults, direct and indirect. 

Paris seemed to consider the question then, his dark eyes flashing. They were gorgeous eyes, deep set and lined with lashes longer than a girl’s. He really was Troy’s great beauty, and didn’t he know it. Yet Patroclus had never seen him as anything else than what he really was. 

“It starts with a painting. Then an invitation to the court of Hellas. Then a courtship, because why the fuck would he invite me to Hellas without the intention of courting me? And before you know it, I’ll be married to the peasant scum. O’ great prince of Troy, reduced to herding sheep.” 

Patroclus had nothing to say to that. Paris was the youngest son, and inactive in politics. While his brothers constantly plotted for the throne, his attentions lay elsewhere. It meant that he never quite had his family’s respect. This kind of thing would only sink him lower in their eyes, especially with brothers as powerful and competent as his. 

“Enough talk,” Paris announced. He beckoned at the painter impatiently. “What are you doing just standing there? Get out your things and _paint_. Isn’t that what you’re here for?” 

“Your highness -”

Paris ignored the painter’s objection. He picked up a bundle of clothes and threw it at Patroclus.   
“Get changed.” 

“You don’t mean to -” 

At a look from the prince, Patroclus hung his head in resignation and unfolded the clothes. They were some of Paris’, and while they weren’t exactly the same height or size, he could pull it off. There was no use arguing when Paris got like this. 

“What if something happens -”

“What?” Paris demanded, swinging round with a look of anger. “ _What_ could happen, Patroclus? Tell me!” 

“Well …” Patroclus dithered. “He could see it as an insult that you didn’t bother to pose for the painting. It could … be very bad for us.”

“My dear Patroclus,” Paris replied, walking towards him slowly.   
“You idiot. That is exactly the _point_.”   
He reached over and grabbed Patroclus’ hair, pulling hard the way he had when they were children. It hurt, the strands being wrenched from his scalp so he couldn’t turn away. 

“Paris, it’s a bad idea to insult the leader of -”

“What’s the worst that could happen, hmm? He doesn’t like the look of the painting? Because let’s be honest -” Paris hummed, stroking Patroclus’ face. His smirk only grew, making Patroclus wish he were invisible. 

“Or he executes the painter for doing such a shit job.” Paris threw a wicked glance at the man, still fumbling around with his painting supplies in trepidation. 

“Either way, it is just a joke, you see? I will have my fun, and I will let this Achilles know to fuck off while I’m at it.” 

“He toppled an entire royal house,” Patroclus murmured, even while Paris continued humming at him, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. 

He knew there was no use, even then. He could do nothing but stand by in embarrassed silence, trying not to look at the painter while Paris helped him out of his clothes and into the new ones. 

“Chin up, now,” Paris said, tapping Patroclus’ chin. “It’s only going to take a few hours. And then we can forget all about it.” He smiled, and the expression was almost genuine. 

It made Patroclus waver. No matter how hateful Paris could be, there was also no one else who knew him better. They were closer than Paris was with his actual brothers. The prince could be needlessly cruel and mocking. But he could also be reassuring and affectionate when he wanted to be. 

And what else was there? Patroclus had grown up under the royal roof because his father had died saving the king’s life. It was his blessing and his curse; never a servant, but never an equal. 

He tried to compose a letter to Polyxena in his head, thinking of what words he would use. He would never tell her about this, of course. It was too humiliating. There were some things Paris made him do that was kept only between the two of them. It lived inside him, that guilt and shame and anger at himself for complying. 

“Turn your head to the side a little,” the painter instructed, casting a resigned glance at Paris as he left the room. 

“You - you have a good nose.” Almost pityingly.

“Thanks,” Patroclus mumbled. They avoided each other’s eyes as the painter mixed his pigments. The smell of turpentine was slowly spreading through the air, and Patroclus thought he could lose himself in a daze if he tried hard enough.


	2. Chapter 2

Outside, the bells of the old tower rang to signal the morning hunt. There was no catching up on sleep now, Patroclus thought, rubbing his eyes and peeking outside the window. He could see the hunting dogs bounding out of their kennels, and despite the previous day, it was enough to make him smile. 

Good memories, they brought back. Of growing up in the palace, when he had been allowed to go outside on his own while Paris had his lessons. He had loved seeing the king’s men dressed in their hunting gear, and their beautiful horses. But even more exciting were the hounds.

They’d come running up to him at the fence, and he had been terrified and thrilled at the same time, those great beasts with their thick coats and sharp teeth. He had seen them kill a fox once. 

“They think to attack you, boy! Run!!” someone had screamed, and he leaped in terror, letting out a yelp and attempting to get away from the dozens of dogs approaching him with wagging tails. 

“Oh, stop it, you idiot,” another voice chided. 

Before he knew it, the dogs were called to heel. 

“They’re bred for hunting, you see. They wouldn’t harm you. Here, hold out your hand like this.” 

He had been crouching on the ground with his eyes covered, but at the sound of such a soothing voice, he tentatively reached out a hand. He was met with a wet snout and bristly whiskers, then a tongue licking his hand. And then several tongues, licking his face until he laughed and batted them away. 

He looked up, hands tangled in soft fur, and shied away at the sight of a group of older boys standing around and watching him. The princes. Priam’s older sons, whom he was not allowed to talk to. It was the way the Trojan court worked, he had been told. No addressing a higher ranked member unless he was addressed first. 

“He likes you,” said the boy next to him. With a gentle tug, he stood up and led his dog away. “Come around tomorrow and you’ll see them again.” 

And so he had gone every morning of the hunting season, watching the king’s men and the princes galloping away into the woods, then waiting until they returned. The hounds came to recognize him, and would answer when he called. 

Good memories, indeed, Patroclus mused, watching the scene from his window. But like many good things, it did not last forever. He wondered how long it had been since a prince had joined the hunt. Those friendly boys, who had let him pet their dogs. 

Now they were men, and scheming against their own father for a chance at the throne. It had been a long time since any of them had even set foot in the palace, and the Trojan court was not what it had been. 

It made Patroclus’ heart heavy to think of how the palace had been in the old days, bustling with activity, full of life and music. Now it was as cold and empty as his room. And then Polyxena had left. 

He’d tried to be happy for her. And he was. But at the same time, he had lost all hope, too clouded by the sense of loneliness the stone walls of the palace enclosed around him.   
\---

“I slept like a baby,” Paris announced, stretching out on his chair and propping his feet on the table, ignoring Evander’s scowl. 

Patroclus said nothing, peeling and peeling at his orange until it was nothing but bits of wet mess on his plate.

As though reading his mind, Paris looked at him and smirked.   
“I wonder where it is right now.” 

“Stop it,” Patroclus muttered, shoving an orange slice into his mouth. 

“What? I’ve always wondered how fast the messengers can -”

“It will take a long time. It’s a large parcel.” He winced, thinking of how Paris had snickered with glee as they wrapped the painting up the night before, tying it with string. 

“Think this will impress the _great Achilles_?” Paris had asked, holding up an ornate box decorated with silver filigree and gemstones.   
“It’s a pity … he’ll think it such an ostentatious gift - until he opens it and sees the painting!” He’d thrown back his head and burst into laughter, making Patroclus want to shrivel inside himself. 

“Please don’t do this,” Patroclus had begged. “There’s still time to ask the painter to make another one.”

Paris had only laughed at him and continued wrapping the parcel beautifully, finally placing it in its box and calling for the messenger to deliver it to Olympia, Hellas’ capital city. 

“Come see my handiwork, Patroclus,” he’d marveled. “That’s all the commoner scum will ever get from me.” 

And he spat on the box.

“Paris,” Patroclus said now, blinking away the events. “You said we could forget all about it.” 

Paris cocked his head to one side. “I did say that.”   
He smiled.   
“It bothers you so, doesn’t it, Patroclus?” 

_Hestia_. Sometimes he couldn’t stand being in the same room as this man. 

Paris got up and walked around the breakfast table until he was standing behind Patroclus’ chair. 

“Oh, darling, dear, Patroclus,” he sneered, right in Patroclus’ ear. “You only have to stop thinking of it so much. I wish you wouldn’t worry. It can be terribly irritating.” 

Patroclus tried to concentrate on his breakfast. It was never a good thing when Paris used his name that way. Best to ignore him until he found someone else to torment. 

“Of course,” he replied, softly. 

Paris patted his head, seeming satisfied. “That’s the spirit!” 

He took off his boots and threw them into Patroclus’ lap.   
“Polish my boots, that’s a good boy. I like it better when you do it.” 

Patroclus waited until Paris had left the room. Then he sighed, swiping the boots off his lap so they landed on the floor.

“I’ll do them for you, Patroclus,” Evander murmured, picking them up at once. 

“No, I’ll do it,” Patroclus protested, taking them back. “He’ll know the difference.”

Evander frowned, looking like he wanted to say something. He shook his head instead.   
“Well, help me with the dishes and then you’re free for the morning.” 

Patroclus nodded. Chores had always calmed him, even though no one but Evander asked him to do them. In fact, he had always been unpopular with the servants until Evander came along. 

They knew he was common, just like them. But unlike them, he was allowed his own room in the palace, to eat food from the royal tables, and to walk one step behind the prince. It was enough to breed resentment, even for a small child like he had been when he’d first arrived at court. 

He vividly remembered Paris’ nursemaid, a pretty young woman whom the queen herself had employed to care for them both. The nursemaid had crooned and sighed over Paris, turning a blind eye when he tore the curtains or broke something valuable. 

“It was Patroclus,” little Paris would say, pointing an accusatory finger. 

The nursemaid would give Patroclus a sharp look, then bring him aside.   
“If this is how you’re going to behave -” she would start. Then she slapped him hard. 

He cried, the first time. But then he saw how intently Paris watched him, waiting for a sign of weakness. After that, he held back the tears. 

He kept his lips clamped shut when he found maggots in his food. He didn’t say a word when he found the head ripped off his favorite toy horse. And when his mother’s picture books were all scratched out, the pages torn and ink splattered over them, well - he waited until he was in his bed, safe and warm, before letting it all out. 

All of that stopped when Evander arrived as the new chief attendant. The man was pompous and proper, his face permanently set in a haughty frown befitting a servant who had earned his high rank. But those beady eyes of his saw everything. 

When something was done to the food, he discreetly swiped the plate away and replaced it with a new one. When a mess was made in Patroclus’ room, he had the servants clean it up and admonished them for not paying better attention to the king’s ward. 

And even more - he noticed the red marks on Patroclus’ arm where the nursemaid had prodded him with the iron poker from the fireplace. There hadn’t been any words exchanged, but the next day, there was no sign of the nursemaid. In her place was a grumpy old woman who would nag at Paris all day long when he did something wrong. 

It didn’t change everything. Some of the older servants still disliked Patroclus for being a commoner among the royals. But he didn’t know how long he would have lasted without Evander. They were not close. But at a young age, he had learned that good people existed. And it was enough.   
\---

The weeks passed, the last of winter leaving Troy behind to make way for the first buds of spring. 

Enough time had passed by where he thought he could forget. Paris left him alone for the most part, too preoccupied with his frivolous parties, drinking and gambling the night away. 

He spent his days helping Evander with his chores, and listening in to news of lands that had been seized by Priam’s sons. It was a constant battle, one kept behind closed doors. 

Polyxena’s latest letter arrived and he read it over and over again. 

_I wish you were here_ , it said, and he wished it too. He had only a year left until Priam’s obligation as his guardian was over. And then he would be free to go wherever he wanted. 

It was strange, thinking of that. It kept him awake at night, thinking of green pastures rolling as far out as the eye could see. He thought of leaving everything he knew behind, of taking that first step out from the palace walls. Of never seeing Paris again. 

Perhaps he could find Polyxena at her boarding house in Phrygia. They could walk around the city and go for rides into the countryside. Maybe he could find work in the kitchens or at the stables. It could work. 

But who would take him? They would take one look at his smooth, uncalloused hands and slam the door in his face. 

He sat at his desk, pen hovering over paper, suddenly at a loss for words on what he would write to Polyxena. He remembered that day, so distant now, when she had come barging into his room, whooping with joy that Priam had allowed her to pursue her studies abroad. And the very same night, she had knocked on his door, and he’d opened it to find her with red eyes from crying. 

She was such a contradiction, that Polyxena. They liked to joke that on Queen Hecuba’s childbed, the royal daughter had been swapped for a changeling instead. He grinned, thinking of it, and picked up his pen again. 

_Dear changeling_ , he wrote. 

“Patroclus!!” Evander swung the door open. 

He dropped his pen. “Give me a few minutes, Evander. The dishes can wait.” 

“The king is asking for you.” 

His stomach must have dropped a few inches then. Perhaps it was nothing. Yet, he didn’t dare look at Evander. 

“ _What did you do_?” the chief attendant asked, nose wrinkled in suspicion. 

“Nothing!” 

Not nothing. Evander seemed to guess at his thoughts, but said no more. 

“Well, hurry along. He doesn’t have much time these days, you know.” 

Patroclus couldn’t remember a day when the king _had_ had time. He might have been Priam’s ward, but they were as strange to each other as they had always been.   
\---

“ - completely irresponsible behavior! You think I am not ashamed? I am ashamed!” 

Patroclus cringed as soon as the door was open, at once greeted by the king’s enraged voice. He hung back in the doorway, unwilling to enter. 

“ _Go_!” Evander hissed at him, gave him a shove, and slammed the door shut behind him. 

“Ah look father, it’s Patroclus!” Paris exclaimed, perking up immediately.

Hestia help him. Of _course_ this was all coming down on _his_ head. 

Priam ignored him, continuing his tirade.   
“Are you plotting the downfall of this kingdom?” he demanded, glaring at his son. “Because if you would get your head out of your arse, you would notice that your brothers are already doing the same!” 

“What a racket, father,” Paris complained. 

“There is no respect in this household! None!” 

Patroclus hung back, seeing how red Priam had gotten. He couldn’t help but feel a tinge of sympathy for the king. The years battling his own sons had aged him. How could an old man compete against the young and clever, who just so happened to be after his kingdom? 

There was Hector, wise and powerful.   
There was Deiphobus, strong and willful.   
There was Polydorus, gifted and diplomatic.   
There was Helenus, clever and resourceful. 

And then there was Priam, who had lost his queen to illness, his sons to power, and his daughters to marriage. All save for one, who just so happened to be the only child who would not stop causing him trouble. 

While Patroclus was pondering this, Priam had turned to him.   
“How could you let this happen? By Hestia, boy, you are supposed to be the one with a good head on his shoulders!” 

“I - your majesty, I tried to stop him -”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter now,” Priam exhaled in disgust, waving a hand. 

“That’s what I’ve been saying, father,” Paris replied smugly. 

“Shut your mouth, boy. You have _no idea_ the extent of damage that could have been done.”

“What? Was he going to declare war because he didn’t like what he saw? Typical. Small men, with small ideas,” Paris muttered darkly. 

“You _still_ do not understand. You had the nerve to send off an official portrait without my approval! Has Hestia herself condemned me to have an idiot for a son?” 

“Haven’t I heard this before,” Paris mumbled, rolling his eyes. 

With that, Priam reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, tossing it at Paris. 

“What’s this?” Paris unfolded the paper, eyes roaming over it. His expression darkened for a moment. Then he looked at Patroclus, a strained snort escaping him. 

“What?” Patroclus asked. He looked at Priam. “Your majesty, what is it?” 

And what was that sound Paris was making? Gods, he was _laughing_. 

“We’ve found you a man at last, Patroclus,” Paris spluttered, and collapsed in a chair, laughing like a madman. 

Priam looked ready to murder him. 

“What is going on?” Patroclus demanded. He stared at the king, silently pleading at him to answer. 

“He _likes_ the painting.” 

Silence. 

“He -”

“ _Achilles Pelides_. He has extended an invitation for a visit to the capital city of Hellas, in time for the spring festivities.” 

“Hellas …” Patroclus needed to sit down. 

“More importantly,” Priam continued. His face had gone so dark the scowl seemed permanently etched there.   
“He has extended an invitation for _Paris, Prince of Troy_ , to attend the spring festivities.” 

He was going to throw up. He thought he was. 

Priam had turned to Paris now, waiting for the laughter to die down.   
“Do you see what you have done?” 

“Two commoners. It is only fitting,” Paris replied, but his face had a touch of seriousness now, perhaps considering the circumstances for the first time. 

“It does not _matter_ that he is a commoner!” Priam exploded, slamming his fist against the table so hard that even Paris jumped.   
“If I send you to his domain, he will know it was a deception!” 

“But it _was_ a deception,” Patroclus muttered, earning a glare. 

“And we cannot afford to refuse. _We cannot_.” 

“What do you mean?” Paris asked, frowning this time. He sat up straighter. “It was just a joke, father. A slap in the face at best.” 

“That is what this kingdom is to you? Something to be offered for your amusement, no matter the expense?” 

“Offered? We are not offering anything, father. Write back to him and say a prince of Troy will not be caught dead in -”

Paris did not get a chance to finish his sentence, for Priam grabbed him and pulled him out of the chair, shaking him hard. It left Paris stunned. He had never been disciplined before, too used to getting away with whatever he wanted. 

“We are going _bankrupt_ , boy,” Priam growled, low and hushed. 

Paris turned a few shades whiter. 

“Your brothers have just about milked me dry. Milked this _country_ dry, with their petty wars and their greedy hands, grabbing for the throne. It never stops. And it will not stop, until this palace is taken away from us, until we no longer have our people’s respect. Do you see? Do you see how close we are to losing everything? You with your banquets and your dancing. With your silk and your jewels. With a son like this, I am better off dead.” 

The laughter had gone completely from Paris’ face. He stared back at his father, white as a sheet, eyes black with hatred. 

The silence seemed to go on forever, until Patroclus thought he would be sick with the dread it incurred. He went over to Priam, gently prying his hands away from Paris, leading him over to a chair so he could sit. He was worried the old man would keel over with all this rage. 

“What do we do?” he asked, softly, so as not to awaken the king’s temper again. 

Priam sighed, rubbing his forehead. He took off his cufflinks, the gold pin at his collar, and the furs he wore across his shoulders. Just then, he did not look like a king any longer, just a disappointed man who had been weary with the burden of the ages. 

“There is no choice,” he said. 

He looked hard at Patroclus, eyes shining brightly. 

“ _You_ have to go. _You_ are Paris, Prince of Troy.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Want something to eat?” Evander asked. “A little bit of bacon, a boiled egg?”

Patroclus shook his head, nose nearly touching his tea. He didn’t have the appetite. He suspected he wouldn’t for a very long time. 

Evander made a disgruntled sound and plunked a platter of bread in front of him anyway.   
“It’s not very pleasant to throw up in a carriage,” he insisted. 

Patroclus said nothing.

It was warm in the kitchen, the familiar sounds of the kettle boiling and the coals in the oven the only thing keeping him from leaping off his chair and running. Running where, he did not know. He did not care. 

He would run until his feet carried him off the palace grounds. He would run until the walls of Troy were far behind him. Anything but this. 

Evander hummed as he worked, and it made him look up at the chief attendant. The man was just starting to get grey at his temples. He did not have a handsome face, but it was a familiar face, one that had followed Patroclus through a difficult childhood. It was a face he did not know when he would see again. 

“I don’t know if I can do it, Evander,” he admitted, so soft he thought the attendant did not hear him. 

Evander took one look at him, pausing his work.   
“Now, don’t start getting sentimental on me, Patroclus. In a few hours you are getting into that carriage. And then it’s off to Hellas. I’ve heard Olympia is a beautiful city. Wouldn’t it be nice to see what it’s like outside of Troy?” 

“Not like this.” He didn’t expect the firm hand on his shoulder, Evander leaning down to look him in the eye. 

“Do not underestimate yourself, Patroclus. You may not have been born royal, but you are a part of the king’s own house. You have always been an equal. They will see that in Hellas.” 

There was a brief silence as Patroclus considered this.   
“I will miss you,” he finally sighed, and pulled Evander into an embrace, ignoring the chief attendant’s tutting.   
\---

The king had called him for a meeting in his study.   
Patroclus thought he had spent the past few weeks in this room, pacing around, discussion after discussion to prepare for the coming departure. 

They had searched. Every single person at court, who could possibly know what Paris looked like. They had to eliminate the possibility that they would be found out once Patroclus arrived at Olympia, that someone who had met Paris would see him and uncover the truth. 

It was unlikely, even so. With the revolution, all communication between Troy and Hellas had been shut down. The House of Atreus had sent back ambassador after ambassador, turning down offers of foreign diplomacy. And after its fall … the Hellenic government was left with newcomers, common men who had never set foot outside their own country, let alone in Troy where the royal children were kept within the walls of the palace. 

Everyone involved in the matter had been sworn to secrecy. The servants, the household. And the guards who would be accompanying Patroclus on his trip over the border. 

“There is one person left,” Patroclus had pointed out.   
“The painter.” 

“Our royal household is most delighted to accommodate an extended _guest_ ,” Priam had merely replied. 

It left Patroclus both relieved and afraid for the man. It hadn’t been the painter’s fault at all. What if he was rotting in a prison cell?

Meanwhile, Paris was experiencing a taste of life outside the palace for the first time. 

“You are Alexandros,” Priam had commanded, looking hard at his son for any sign of protest.   
“This is who you are from now on.”

“You’re sending me away?” Paris had asked, turning to look at Patroclus like it was all his fault. 

“If word reaches Hellas that there is a prince still inside the palace, this is over,” Priam replied.   
“You will have a life outside the court. You will have new servants, who do not know who you are. Frankly, I don’t give a fuck what you do. So long as you do it under the name I have given you.” 

“Must be nice,” Paris had shot out, glaring at Patroclus. “You were never anybody yourself, so you take what was mine.” 

Patroclus had never hated Paris so much in that moment. _His_ joke, _his_ laughter, and where did they find themselves now? 

Patroclus was not clever or educated. Whoever this leader of the revolution was, he would surely see right through him and get them all killed. 

The Atreidae and their children. Dead and gone. History tended to repeat itself. 

But later on, when Paris was in his carriage setting off for the countryside, he leaned out the window and looked at Patroclus. No malice, no mockery. Just a young prince, and a future he hadn’t expected for himself. 

“I don’t want Troy to go bankrupt,” he admitted, grudgingly. 

“I don’t either,” Patroclus replied. 

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Paris started. “But you know what you have to do?”

“I -” Patroclus frowned. 

“You’re going to bleed this Achilles Pelides for everything he’s worth. So he wants a Trojan prince in his household? He is going to get one. And won’t he regret it.” Paris grinned, his teeth flashing rather like a wolf’s.   
“You’ll show that Hellene pig what he’s worth.”

“Paris -”

“It’s Alexandros,” Paris corrected.

If only he had fought harder. That painting … fuck. There was no point dwelling on it any longer. 

So now he found himself alone with the king, all the fears and the anticipation for the future ahead of them. 

“It’s no small thing I’m asking you to do,” Priam voiced, pacing around his desk. 

Patroclus shook his head. 

“You must be ready.” 

“I don’t know what you want of me,” Patroclus admitted, daring a small glance at the king. 

Priam stopped his pacing and stood until they were eye to eye.

“Patroclus. Your father died in my arms. The last beat of his heart, given for the good of the country. And that was when I swore I would repay him. He is long gone. But I know deep down, his courage lives on in you.”

He didn’t even remember his father. It was always peculiar hearing about him, like some folk hero rather than someone who could have loved him once. 

“What if I am not like him?” 

Priam stayed still for a moment. Then he lifted his hand and slipped off the silver ring on his forefinger, handing it to Patroclus. The metal felt cool beneath his fingertips, the twin swords of Troy flashing at him. It was the king’s coronation ring, given to him when he had sworn himself as Troy’s protector for the length of his reign. The swords, to defend the city to his dying breath. 

“My sons have fought tooth and nail to pry this from my hand. And now I give it to you; a blessing. No blood is worth the future you could bring us. As for courage - know that I would not stake my country on someone I do not believe possesses it.” 

Patroclus took a deep breath.   
“If I am Paris, then what happens to Patroclus?” 

Priam smiled, a twinkle showing in his weary eyes.   
“Sometimes I forget how young you are. Come. The carriage is ready.”   
\---

He saw Evander waving at him from the line of servants seeing him off. It made his heart ache. He stared out the carriage window, watching the palace grow smaller and smaller behind him. Riding alongside were the royal guard, who would ensure his safe arrival. And then they would be gone too, and he would be all alone, in a strange city with men who had overthrown a monarchy.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The carriage was getting stuffy. He had pried the window open to catch some of the breeze outside. His clothes were all rumpled. He would arrive at Olympia looking more like a vagabond than a prince. 

He had formed a sort of camaraderie with the guards. Every time they stopped, they shared their meals and played draughts or cards. It made it easier to forget his troubles, to join in their laughter and pretend the road ahead was not as dark as he feared. 

They called him by the prince’s name, but they knew who he was. It brought him a sort of comfort, the last time he would be treated as an ordinary person. 

“Look ahead, prince!” one of the guards called, cantering up to the window. “There is the city!”

He straightened, craning his head out the window to look. It was a grey evening, but he could just about make out its outline. Towering buildings, and turrets; smoke from chimneys. 

Olympia. 

He didn’t quite know what to feel, then, but the sight of such a place made his heart swell just a little.

“We have crossed the border into Hellas, and now we approach her,” the guard continued, tipping his hat at Patroclus.   
“She is grand, is she not?” 

“Beautiful,” Patroclus breathed.

He kept his eyes wide open, even though the guard insisted it would be another hour until they arrived. He thought he counted every minute. 

It was grander still the closer they went, surrounded by fields and forests so green and abundant he thought he had entered one of his mother’s picture books. 

He hadn’t known what to expect. A grey prison, with broken glass around the edges? It was impossible not to be excited, seeing the capital city with his very eyes. 

He could scarcely believe it when they passed through the gates. Paved streets, and fountains, gilded roofs in every direction. 

“Never in my life,” he muttered, sharing a grin with the guard outside the window, still riding at the side of the carriage. 

He clutched the king’s ring against his chest - it had slipped right off his finger when he tried it on, so he wore it around his neck. 

There was a pause as the carriage was stopped by a unit of soldiers. He could hear his guards exchanging words with them. And then -

“Prince,” the friendly guard said, opening the window. “This is where we leave you.” 

“What? But -”

“These soldiers are Pelides’. They will escort you to his house on the edge of the city. They will not tolerate foreign arms.” 

Patroclus took a deep breath. He suddenly felt trapped, trapped within the walls of the carriage, and wanting nothing more than to beg the guards not to leave him. 

The guard leaned further into the carriage and clasped his hand. “Godspeed, friend,” he whispered. 

Patroclus nodded, tears springing to his eyes. He blinked them away. He had held them back all this time, and he would keep it that way. 

“Thank you. Safe journey home.” 

The guard nodded, and rode out to the others, who had formed a line and a final salute. They held it all the way to the end of the street, as the carriage lurched out of sight, and the Hellene soldiers took over. 

They wore red insignia over their uniforms, and carried heavy weaponry. The charm of the city was wearing off, now. How could one not feel like a prisoner on his way to the execution block? 

He tried not to stare when the soldiers removed the flag of Troy from the carriage and replaced it with the red and gold flag of Hellas. One of them caught him looking.   
“Pardon,” he muttered. “It’s policy.” 

He sat back in his seat and tried to keep his head held high, all the while observing his surroundings. His stomach had wound itself into a series of tight knots, straining further when they passed by the heart of the city, where the golden palace of the Atreidae stood. 

Everyone had heard the stories. They had been executed right in front of their home, in public view. 

He squeezed his eyes shut tight, even though there was no way the platform and chopping block would still be there. He just couldn’t get the images out of his head. The children, whom he had seen while they lived and breathed, and the little princess who had smiled at him in the hallway. 

It was getting dark by the time they reached the house, a large villa by the River Alpheus. Perhaps they would drown him in the river, he thought, and cast it from his mind immediately. If the Hellenes meant to cause trouble, they would not have invited him here. It was just hard keeping his mind from darker matters, here in this city where so much sorrow had been invoked. 

One of the soldiers rapped on the carriage door, a signal for him to step out. He looked all around him, noting the Hellene flag waving at the roof of the house. In daytime, it might have been a sight to behold. But now, standing in the shadows looking up at lit windows, he had never felt more alone. 

“Paris, Prince of Troy,” one of the soldiers addressed him, a higher ranked officer.   
“House Pelides.”

The front door was open and a few servants were there to greet him. 

“This is Chryseis,” the officer introduced, beckoning over a tall fair-haired woman.   
“She will show you around.” 

Chryseis inclined her head. 

“Pleased to meet you,” Patroclus said, uncertainly. The words sounded so strange in his voice; he did not want to offend. He glanced at the officer. “And what of Achilles Pelides?” 

“He will have a reception tomorrow, sir,” Chryseis replied. The officers had already started to leave. 

“Achilles does not live here?” 

Chryseis raised an arm, motioning at the entire row of houses by the river. “These are House Pelides. That’s his, in the center.” She pointed out a house no different from the rest, but with bushes all around the sides. “You must be tired. Let’s have you settled in front of a warm fire, hmm?”

“I did plenty of sleeping on the trip,” Patroclus replied, then clamped his lips shut. He didn’t want to risk sounding rude. 

Chryseis only looked over her shoulder at him and smiled. “You speak Hellene very well.”

“Do I?” he asked, unsure. It wasn’t too different a language from Trojan. They had many words in common. 

“Yes, especially for someone who has never been in the country. Troy must be a beautiful place. I hope you will find Hellas the same,” Chryseis said, leading him further into the house. 

“I could see the city from the window of my carriage.” 

Chryseis laughed. “Then you have still seen nothing! We must show you around, mustn’t we?” 

Her smile was contagious, and he found himself nodding along.   
“I - yes. I would love to see more of the city.” 

“Here we are,” Chryseis said, stopping at a room on the first floor. “I picked it myself. I hope you like it. And there are refreshments by the fireplace.” 

“Thank you,” Patroclus said, genuinely relieved. He had imagined being searched, being marched to a cold room at the top of a tower - this warm hospitality was not one he had encountered even in Troy. 

Chryseis gave him another smile and left him alone to survey the room. It was a spacious, grand room more akin to living quarters than a mere sleeping space. There was a large window overlooking the river, and the gardens that interconnected each house with the other. 

Someone - Chryseis, he presumed - had placed fresh flowers by his bed, and the fireplace had been going for some time so it was warm. There was a table filled with small cakes and fruit, cheeses and breads. His luggage had been piled neatly in the corner and unpacked, quick as a wink. 

He was not going to be able to sleep tonight, he thought, opening the window to let the cool night air in. He strained his ears for any sounds, perhaps from the other houses, or across the river - but it was a quiet night. 

_Dear changeling_ , he thought, hand itching for a pen and paper. So much he could tell Polyxena. Only her letters would never reach him now. And he could hardly write to her as her brother. 

He sat on the bed, wondering if she would think he had forgotten her. But it didn’t matter, did it? His question had never been answered. If he was Paris, then what would happen to Patroclus? 

Patroclus could not exist anymore. Patroclus had died in Troy, just as his father had in the king’s arms. 

Perhaps it was better this way. No, it wasn’t, he scolded himself. Evander’s words echoed in his head. 

And Priam would not have sent him here, appointed to ease Troy from her misfortune, if he had been anyone _but_ Patroclus.   
\---

It was morning when he opened his eyes. He must have been more tired than he’d thought. 

There was a soft knock on his door, and Chryseis poked her head in.   
“Did I wake you? I’m sorry, sir,” she said, looking worried. 

“No,” he muttered, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and throwing the covers off himself, worried he had been expected to be up at a certain time. 

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Chryseis waved a hand, chuckling. “I was just bringing in your breakfast.” She held the door open and wheeled in a cart, full of covered dishes.   
“How did you sleep?” 

“Was alright.” Patroclus yawned, stretching his arms. “I’m dreadfully sorry, I didn’t mean to sleep in.”

“I’m sorry?” Chryseis asked, looking confused, and he realized he had lapsed back into Trojan. 

“I said I’m sorry to sleep in. I’ll be up in a minute.” 

“No, don’t worry. Please go back to bed. There is all the time in the world, sir.” 

“It’s Pat -” he stopped himself, the urgency waking him up immediately. Chryseis raised her eyebrows at him in curiosity. 

“Please, Paris will do.” The name felt wrong in his mouth. 

“Alright.” Chryseis beamed at him and started setting the table for breakfast.   
“There is no rush, but whenever you’re ready, Achilles would like to see you in the main house. It’s where most court affairs are run now, without the palace, you know?”

“I’ll be ready soon!” Patroclus was already rummaging in the wardrobe for his day clothes. He paused, registering Chryseis’ words. “Did you say -”

And then a feeling like lead in his stomach, heavy and foreboding.   
“Achilles. He wants to see me.” 

“Afternoon, perhaps? I can show you the way, but the soldiers will escort you if you like, of course.” 

He had no answer. What did it matter who escorted him? He was going to meet the man who had seized Hellas as his own. The man who had invited him to the city, all because of a painting that should never have been allowed to leave the gates of Troy. 

“Hestia,” he breathed, sitting down and placing his head in his hands. Surely no gods would help him now.


	4. Chapter 4

In Troy, he’d spent much of his life waiting in rooms behind closed doors. Waiting for Paris to finish his lessons so they could have their supper. Waiting for the king when he was being summoned. Waiting for the news, the night Queen Hecuba had died. 

Just like this, Patroclus thought, swinging his legs on the bench. It was large enough a room not to feel claustrophobic, and there were windows from floor to ceiling he could look out of. When they had arrived, the corridors had been bustling with people. Now the noise was dying down, and he could hear birds chirping outside. 

He could almost pretend he wasn’t nervous. Not at all, he told himself. And then before he could stop himself, he pictured Paris’ mocking face in his head and there it was all over again. 

“Stop worrying,” he said, fingering the silver ring under his shirt. How could he meet this Achilles Pelides as a bumbling mess? 

It was the waiting that was the worst. Chryseis had told him he could wait here, but she hadn’t exactly said he had to. He glanced at the door, wondering. Would anybody notice - ? 

Gingerly, he got up and opened the door, peering behind it to see if anyone was there. The house seemed to have emptied out. It was so different from the palace at Troy, he thought, surveying the decorated walls and carpeted floor. Almost as though it existed in a different time. 

The regal attire he wore was stuffy, and there was a thread sticking out at the back of his neck that had been driving him up the wall for the past hour. They hadn’t had much time to tailor a new wardrobe for him, so he had been left with a combination of Paris’ old outfits and some new ones. 

He walked down the corridors, encountering new rooms with the doors wide open. There were offices and meeting rooms and even a private dining hall with a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. 

Ironically, he thought Paris would like this place a lot. He was taking in everything he saw, already composing the imaginary letter he would write in his head. 

This Achilles Pelides had to be extremely wealthy, he realized, as room after room passed by, each more lavish than the next. This might not have been the golden palace of the Atreidae, but it was nothing to turn up his nose at. 

He had just about finished looking through the ground floor when he came across an enormous ballroom. Several people had walked out of it, and he shrunk back, but they took no notice of him. There was music drifting out, soft and tinkly like bells, then deep and melodious - he knew what that was. 

They had once brought a piano into the Trojan palace. He remembered it like yesterday, its mahogany wood and ivory keys. How they had felt under his fingers. It had been a gift for Priam’s oldest daughter, but she was married off before even having a chance to play on it. And so it sat in her old room, collecting dust, until he’d snuck in and tried it out himself. 

He couldn’t play like a proper musician. He had only been a boy, messing around on the keys. He certainly couldn’t play like the pianist in the ballroom now, elegant fingers flying over the keys like second nature. 

It was like flying, the song. Feeling the wind on his face, standing atop a tree branch and imagining he was a bird that could take off wherever he wanted. It reminded him of that. 

The melody slowed, the notes fading away, until the song had stopped altogether. And he was back to earth again, awakened from a daydream. 

“Want a turn?” 

He started, realizing the pianist was addressing him.   
“I - oh no. Don’t stop on my account.” 

The pianist got up and slid the bench out, beckoning him over.   
“It sounds marvelous, don’t you think? Have at it.”

The blood had started to rise to his face, he could even feel it in his toes.   
“I’m really not a musician,” he muttered, and laid his hands gently on the keys. 

The memories seemed to flood back as quickly as they had left him; Laodice’s musty old room and the sheet covered in dust he’d had to haul off the piano every time, coughing. And those beautiful keys and the sounds they made, not quite like singing, but if he closed his eyes it gave the same feeling. 

He pressed down on the keys, tapping each one, and the notes echoed clearly around the room. Of course they would have music and dancing here, he mused. It wasn’t Troy after all. 

“You like it,” the pianist laughed, leaning against the wood. 

“It’s been a long time since - well, I don’t know any songs.” 

“Don’t need to,” the pianist shrugged. 

Patroclus smiled, running his hands over the keys again.   
“I used to try to play the Trojan national anthem. It was a disaster, of course.” 

“Music can hardly be called a disaster,” the pianist replied. 

“That’s because you haven’t heard my attempt yet.” The sun was starting to shine right into his eyes, letting him know it was late afternoon. 

Late afternoon … he cursed. How long had he been out? This was not a good first impression at all. He was going to earn a reputation as a rude, tardy guest, on his first day here, even. 

“I have to go,” he said. “I’m already late.”

“So soon?” the pianist asked, looking curious. 

“Thank you for the - um. I shouldn’t have taken up your time. I have a meeting with ... Achilles Pelides?” Perhaps he could be pointed in the right direction, instead of getting lost in the house and being even more late than he already was. 

“Good. We can just stay here then.” 

“What?” 

“If you like.” 

Patroclus frowned, staring at him.   
“But I need to find Achilles.” 

“I _am_ Achilles,” the pianist said, and smiled at him. 

He … _him_. Patroclus found that he was lost for words.   
“But, I’m Paris,” he blurted out. 

“I know,” Achilles replied. 

Of course he knew. _The painting, idiot_ , Patroclus scolded himself, and shook his head. Now he would be seen as an outright fool. 

“It seems I’ve been a terrible host. Has anyone showed you around the complex?” 

“Chryseis showed me a little.” 

“And you find the accommodations suitable?” Achilles was studying him now, his expression more curious than friendly. There was something rather serious about him, beneath his conversational tone. And he was much younger than Patroclus had imagined. They couldn’t possibly have more than a few years between them. 

He didn’t know what he had expected - a murdering brute with an axe in his hands? Laughing like a maniac as he dragged the Atreidae one by one to the chopping block? He shuddered, picturing it now. He looked at Achilles and found he couldn’t quite imagine him that way. 

“You don’t mind if we go by first names? There are no honorifics in Hellas.” 

“Of course not,” Patroclus replied. “Wait, no honorifics? What about -” he stopped. He had been about to mention the House of Atreus, and realized it was a bad idea. 

Achilles’ lip quirked up, seeming to sense his thoughts.   
“Not since the royal family, of course. You will find that certain things have changed in Hellas. What can we do but move forward, after all?”

“I don’t know much about Hellas,” Patroclus admitted.

“Oh? So education is not a priority even in the court of Troy?” 

“I -” he paused, not expecting this at all. “Of course it is!” 

“Yet you have little awareness of a neighboring country.” 

“What do _you_ know about Troy?” Patroclus bit back, surprised at how heated he had become. 

Achilles pursed his lips, seeming to consider it.   
“That it shares a rich history with Hellas. Our two kingdoms have been allies for the better part of a millennium.”

“And that’s why you asked me here?” Patroclus demanded, then remembered himself, willing his heartbeat to slow down. 

_Hestia_. He had to shut up. This was not going well at all, and he feared it would take a turn for the worse. He was on foreign territory, and it wouldn’t do any good if he couldn’t mind his own words.   
“I apologize,” he breathed, managing to look Achilles in the eye. “I don’t mean to sound -”

“I’ve offended you.” 

“No.”

“I have.” 

“It - if you think …”

“Go on. There’s no use talking at all if you can’t speak your mind.” 

_Gods_. What an infuriating man. Patroclus frowned at his feet. 

“If you think you can make such remarks about someone else’s country and call it goodwill, you’re mistaken.” 

“It was merely an observation.” 

A rude one, Patroclus thought, frowning further. 

“Look, there are flaws to be found in both, Trojan or Hellene. But what matters is the actions we take to overcome them, is it not?”

“What actions are you taking then?” Patroclus asked, his curiosity piqued. Even with the stories about the revolution, there had been little information on Achilles’ current status as leader of Hellas. 

Patroclus had arrived at Olympia expecting a military wasteland, only to find that the city was in as good a condition as any. The tales he had heard had framed Achilles as some sort of defender of the people, freeing them from the monarchy and aristocracy, abolishing old traditions in favor of new ones. 

The executions of the Atreidae had been as symbolic as they had been effective for establishing his authority in Hellas. 

“Have you never thought that we live in the past?” 

Patroclus stayed silent, waiting for him to continue. 

“Hundreds of years, and it has always been the same. How can an ordinary person live when they give everything to the lords who govern them? At some point it has to stop.”

“And you think that is living in the past?”

“We can never move forward if things never change. There are countries over the ocean, where people have mapped out the planets. Can you imagine? That is what happens when people are free to learn and pursue their passions.” 

Patroclus thought of Polyxena, then, in faraway Phrygia. As insane as it was, he knew what Achilles was getting at. Troy and Hellas were alike in this way. Both countries where the land belonged to the wealthy, and the poor had nothing that they hadn’t already given up to their lords. It had always been this way. But to question it - he didn’t think he knew anyone who had. 

Who was this Achilles? he wondered, studying the man. Low-born, like himself. Where had he learned to ask these questions? How did he find a way out of the neverending stasis they existed in, where the past was the future and the other way around? 

Waiting behind closed doors, he thought. Perhaps this Achilles was not one to wait. 

“So you call yourself the shepherd of the people,” he muttered. 

Achilles laughed, looking surprised. “It came up. There is no stopping a name once it has come around.”

“But how can you be so sure you can change things?” 

Achilles leaned forward and caught his eye. “If I could entrust you with a secret …”

“Do tell.”

“I’m not.” Achilles shrugged. “I am never completely sure. What I have achieved so far … it was a combination of timing, and luck, and observation of the enemy. If any one of those had been taken out of the equation, I would not be here today.” 

They were still sitting at the piano, and Patroclus ran his fingers absent-mindedly over the keys. Achilles watched him and smiled.   
“Want me to teach you?” 

“I … I would be no good.” 

“I could. You only have to ask.” 

Patroclus didn’t reply, tapping the keys gently again. He had never been good at learning things. He’d slowed Paris down during their lessons, and was excluded ever since. It had been embarrassing then, and it would be now. 

“I’ve kept you too long. And I told myself I would try to be a good host.” Achilles slapped his forehead, rising from the bench. 

Patroclus looked up, seeing that the sun had already set, the empty ballroom around them bathed in shadowy blue. It was almost twilight, when the first stars would come out. 

“Mapped the planets, you say?” he asked, taking Achilles’ arm when it was offered.   
“Now that would be something.”


	5. Chapter 5

Staying at the riverside had not prepared him for the busy streets of Olympia. He had never experienced anything like it - carriages left and right, the swarm of bodies weaving past each other on the pavement. There were peddlers walking around and screaming out what goods they sold. It was a wall of noise. 

Achilles had been eager to show him the city, but those trips they took together - side by side in the carriage, trying not to stand up from his seat every time something caught his eye - he felt like a child, he felt like he was expected to say something. Clearly there was something about the city that Achilles had hoped he would see, but how could he say it was everything? 

Olympia was as strange as Achilles himself. Every time he thought he found something familiar, something the slightest bit like home, it turned out to be far different than what he’d expected. 

“Is that a temple?” he’d asked one day, pointing out a magnificent building at the side of the road. It had a golden dome and several winged statues at the top. He wished the carriage would slow down so he could have a better look. 

Achilles had stared at him in disbelief. “That’s the opera house.” 

“Oh.” He’d shrunk back. “Aren’t there any temples in Olympia?”

They’d had a pleasant enough morning, but talk of the temples seemed to sour Achilles’ mood. “Is it so different from Troy?” he’d asked. “Gold coins in temples, and where does that money go to?”

He’d kept his mouth shut. Achilles really seemed to despise the aristocracy. It was something that stayed in the air between them, however unacknowledged it was. And here he was, a prince of Troy, representing everything the man would not stand for. _Why_ had Achilles wanted him here? 

He thought about it on his evening walk, which gave him time to cool his head. It could be suffocating, constantly watching his words and making sure to remember who he was. Who Achilles _thought_ he was. 

And apparently Achilles thought him a backwards, uneducated fool who had led a pampered life in the Trojan court with nothing else to show for it. It had never been said, but he could see it in the man’s eyes every time a subject was brought up that he had never heard about. 

How _was_ he going to stay in Hellas like this? How was he? 

It was getting to his head, so much that he lost sleep over it. These walks were the only thing that calmed him, after the overwhelming experience of seeing the city. At least it was peaceful by the river. 

“There’s got to be _some_ temples in Olympia,” he grumbled at himself. “What are they, a godless nation?” 

“Not now, but perhaps in the near future,” came a voice, and he jumped so hard he almost lost his footing. 

“Chryseis,” he breathed, feeling his cheeks warm up. 

“I came to see if you wanted an early dinner,” the housekeeper beamed at him. “Isn’t it getting chilly out here?” 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was just -” 

Chryseis waved it away.   
“Do you want to visit a temple?” she asked, after a moment’s silence. 

“... It would be nice to see something familiar.”

“Well, come along!” 

Before he could make an objection, she grabbed his hand and led him out of the garden, past the boundary line of House Pelides, and into the streets beyond. 

“Where are we -”

“They are not large and grand, like they are in other places. But you might find the same sort of peace, even so.” 

They walked for several blocks, until they passed by a row of shops that had closed for the night. Chryseis led him over to the barred doors and slipped in between them, where there was an entrance he hadn’t even noticed. 

It was very quiet as they went down a flight of stairs, then two, until they must have been underground. 

“Watch your step!” Chryseis warned, tugging his hand until they were met with light. 

He could only stop and gape. The walkway was crowded with hundreds of votive candles, some gathered on large stones, some on the steps; all leading up to the ivory statue of Hestia Eternal, Queen of the Hearth. Patron goddess of every household in Troy, small and large, common and royal. 

He had always liked her, and her tales, even though the Trojans were more likely to use her name as a curse than in true belief. 

“There used to be underground caverns all along this street,” Chryseis said. “This is the last.”

“It’s amazing,” Patroclus replied. He turned to Chryseis. “But how did you know - ?”

“My father was a priest,” Chryseis smiled. “You can take me to any city in Hellas, and I will know how to get to a temple.” 

They stood companionably, watching the cragged lines over the altar from the natural formation of rock. Where the stone had worn off revealed crystal surfaces, so that every now and then the candlelight caught them and made them sparkle. 

It was not a great opera house, or picture-perfect greenery outside the city. Yet, it was undoubtedly one of the most beautiful places he had ever seen. And it had been right there, hidden beneath the shops on an ordinary street. 

“Was I right?” Chryseis asked. “Does it give you the peace you were looking for?” 

“You were right,” he replied, and squeezed her shoulder in thanks.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The visit to the temple had laid his mind to rest, like a soothing balm over a sore itch. He no longer woke up anxious of the day ahead, a million things running through him of what could go wrong. 

He took breakfast with Achilles in the mornings, and found he could relax just the slightest bit. He always went a little earlier than expected, because when the sun had just risen, the corridors were still dark enough that he could stay unnoticed, waiting outside the ballroom. 

And the music would float by, a waking-up song for the day. Achilles played like the keys were an extension of himself, and he wondered what part of that man he had failed to notice during their conversations. 

There was that wall between them, their differences in class and culture - how could someone who played like that be so hard to understand? 

So he waited outside, and he listened to the music; perhaps it could tell him something of Achilles that would not be revealed otherwise. 

When the song was over he would stand with his back against the wall, and play it in his head again.   
Then there would be the scraping of the bench against the floor, Achilles getting up to find him for breakfast.   
And just like that, the spell was broken, and he had nothing to face but himself and a stranger who had called him here without knowing who he was.   
\---

“There is going to be a banquet,” Achilles voiced, not looking up from his food. 

“Hmm?” Patroclus had been fidgeting with the silver ring under his collar again. There were often long silences, where he tried to think of something to say. Then he would look at Achilles and feel discouraged, because why on earth would any of those things interest a man who had led a revolution? 

“For your introduction to court. We haven’t spoken of it.” 

“No, we haven’t.” Patroclus leaned forwards, because this was the first Achilles had made mention of the Hellene court.  
“If you don’t mind me asking -” 

“Ask.”

“How can there be a court without its nobility? Unless … you mean to accept the throne as king?”

Achilles met his eyes, and he knew he had said the wrong thing.   
“Hellas has no king,” Achilles said, stiffly. 

“Then -” 

“The nobility remains. But it’s all a rather complicated issue. I can’t strip them of their titles, but I can certainly seize their lands.”

“Why haven’t you?” 

“Why do you think?” Achilles was looking hard at him, and there it was again. Feeling like he was being taken for an idiot. It was all too familiar, that raised eyebrow, that expectant stare that Paris had flaunted so well. 

Patroclus swallowed, trying to quell the redness he knew had started up his neck.  
“The peasants are still loyal to their lords, aren’t they? It’s going to take a while before they accept you as leader. And you have to maintain good relations with the aristocrats in the meantime.”   
See? He wasn’t an idiot. 

Achilles nodded, seeming satisfied. 

“But then …” Oh gods. He couldn’t bring this up.

“Then what?” Achilles pressed, eyes on him immediately. 

“Why _not_ call yourself a king? How is it any different, if you command the nobility, if you are sole ruler of Hellas?” 

“Then I would be taking advantage of the very system I have overthrown,” Achilles replied.   
“I am _not_ a king. I am simply a man who has great love for my country, but it is a country that has not been fair to my people for centuries.”

“It’s not easy,” Patroclus frowned, biting his lip. He thought of Troy, and how desperately Priam’s sons worked to pry loyalty away from their father. People would follow their king, first and foremost. 

And the Atreidae had ruled Hellas with an iron fist. There could be people who hated them, and people who would never dream of forgetting them. The country was more divided than it appeared. A revolution might have succeeded in overthrowing tyranny, but it would take far more to unite a kingdom. 

“Your introduction to court has been much anticipated,” Achilles added. 

Patroclus glanced at him. “You’re not happy about it,” he guessed. 

“Happy?” Achilles scoffed.   
“What’s there to it? They want to see a leader who is willing to work with them. If that means embracing the old ways for a time, I can do that. No matter how much I disagree with it.” 

The old ways. Patroclus closed his eyes. An alliance with Troy. _Of course_. In order to get the aristocracy to cooperate, Achilles had to show them that he had not completely discarded their traditions and way of life. Even if that meant a meaningless courtship with a neighboring prince, just enough to keep them happy. 

Paris, Prince of Troy, had been invited to Hellas because he was _one of them_. 

It was almost sad how ironic it was, Patroclus mused. In his efforts to uphold leadership, Achilles had managed to pick out the one person who was just as much of an outsider as he was. 

Two commoners, Paris’ voice echoed in his head. 

“And what then? You win the favor of the aristocracy, the people who serve under them … what then?” 

“There is only one thing I care about,” Achilles said, a look of firm resolution crossing his features.   
“It is the Hellas that I have envisioned, where we are not divided by the names of our bloodlines. It is a Hellas that the people can be proud of.” 

There were several minutes of silence, where Patroclus was left to think on what Achilles had said. In some ways it was a noble cause. But was it possible?   
“You may have been right,” he said. “About how we live in the past.” 

He caught Achilles’ eye. “About this banquet …”  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sounds of carriages pulling up in the driveway could be heard throughout the night, even when he shut his window.

His first night among the court. The kinds of people he had grown up around. It was going to be alright. It had to be, didn’t it? 

How different could they be from the nobility back in Troy? The courtiers who hung on Priam’s every word, the sons and daughters of aristocrats who attended Paris’ parties. And the ones who had deserted them too, leaving the palace in support of one of Priam’s sons.

Who was he fooling? Perhaps it really had been a mistake. Paris would not sit here worrying over what others thought of him. Then again, Paris would not care enough to help Achilles with his cause. 

There was a light tap on the door, and Chryseis entered with his boots draped over her arms.   
“There, polished so well you can practically see your reflection in them.” She placed them at the foot of the bed, and gave him a once-over.  
“You’re not ready!” 

“I …” In truth, he had gotten dressed, decided the outfit looked too ridiculous, then removed it and tried on another one. He had gone through several different shirts and jackets, feeling like an impostor in each one. 

“The blue one,” Chryseis pointed out helpfully, noticing his distress.   
“A Trojan color, is it not?” 

He slipped it on, struggling with the lacing and the buttons. The collar scratched against his throat. It was going to be an uncomfortable night.   
“Are you sure I’m not overdressed?” 

“Haven’t you looked outside the window?” Chryseis chuckled. She beckoned him over, motioning at the line of guests entering the main house. Many were draped in furs, dangling with jewels, the shine from their shoes enough to blind the next man over. It wasn’t so different from one of Paris’ parties, after all.   
“Tell me all about it once you get back.” 

“Don’t you want to come with me?” 

“Me?” Chryseis scoffed. “I could never.” 

“It’s what Achilles would want. A Hellas where everyone is an equal, where you don’t need a fur coat and jewels to attend a party.” 

“Achilles hates these things,” Chryseis replied, but his words had made her smile all the same.   
“He has been grumpy these days, hasn’t he? He’ll be in a much better mood when this is all over.”

“I think it’s me,” Patroclus admitted. “He doesn’t like me very much.” 

“Why would you think that?” Chryseis sounded surprised. 

“Because I’m -” But he had no time to explain the long silences and the stares, his own incompetence at matching the other man in conversation. Another servant had knocked on the door to let them know it was time to go. 

“Have fun, Paris,” Chryseis said, giving him a wave. “I insist you have fun.” It was exactly like something Polyxena would have said, and it made him ache for home all of a sudden. 

“If you insist,” he replied, managing a sheepish smile.


	6. Chapter 6

Loud chatter in large groups had always been part of the reason he’d avoided Paris’ parties. The thought of all those eyes on him, and being expected to chime in during small talk - it made his skin prickle to think of it, even now. He clutched his champagne glass to his chest in a death grip, constantly reminding himself not to take too many sips.

It was a nervous habit of his, something to do with his hands to take his mind off all the people around him. There were several stares thrown his way whenever he moved around the ballroom, whispers of “prince” and “Troy” that made his face warm up in self-consciousness. Paris would have basked in the attention. 

But Patroclus - he sidled towards the corners, keeping his eyes averted. There was a small group of musicians, and he thanked Hestia for that. He gravitated towards them, feeling his shoulders relax as his mind was distracted by the music. He could almost drown out the conversations around him. There was a cellist with an impressive moustache who winked at him when he approached.

“Requests, sir?” 

“Uh …” He couldn’t very well ask them to play the Trojan national anthem, now could he?

“Suite no. 3,” came a voice, and he turned around to find Achilles standing right behind him.

“What kind of banquet would it be without it?” the man shrugged, giving Patroclus a brief glance. 

A second later the music stopped and began again, a sweet, soaring melody that made Patroclus imagine dancers whirling across the floor, a blur of silk dresses and handsome suits, all too caught up in their own private worlds to care. 

He collected himself just in time to notice Achilles watching him, waiting to see what he thought of the song. Before he could say anything, a group of people ambled over to them, and he was met with one eager face after another. 

“Don’t tell me, Achilles,” one of them started, a thin man with greying hair. “This is the much-awaited Prince of Troy you have been hiding from us?”

“We have been looking forward to this meeting,” said the woman next to him, his wife, presumably. 

Patroclus noticed an annoyed look crossing Achilles’ face, quickly wiped away.

“The lord and lady of Pherae,” Achilles introduced pleasantly, beckoning towards them with an elegant gesture.  
“Paris, Prince of Troy.” 

Patroclus had run through the proper etiquette for introductions in his head over and over again. The two aristocrats watched him like birds of prey, but he managed to keep his composure. You know this, he told himself, standing still and waiting for them to bow and curtsey. 

He was very glad he had dressed well, stowing away a reminder in his head to thank Chryseis. He might as well have been a marble statue, the way their eyes roamed over him, inspecting every detail that would validate who he was. 

“Pleased to meet you, Lord and Lady Pherae,” he inclined his head. 

“My, what good Hellene,” Lady Pherae exclaimed. “And how do you find Olympia, prince?” 

“It is a most captivating city.” 

“Surely not comparable to Troy.”

Patroclus hesitated. He wasn’t sure if they were fishing for more compliments or wanting information about the Trojan court. That was the problem with these aristocrats. They never said what they meant. 

“There is no comparison,” he finally replied. “How can one compare the sunrise to the ocean? Both have their charms, but are all the more appealing when observed side by side.” 

Where had that come from? he wondered, shocked at himself, even as Lady Pherae laughed in delight. He could feel Achilles’ gaze locked on him.

“A poetic soul, this one,” Lady Pherae remarked. “Then again, is Troy not renowned for its arts?” 

Question after question, and he found his tongue loosening as he managed to find a response to each one. It felt like passing some sort of test, the worst of which was over. 

And all the while, he sensed Achilles right next to him, even if he dared not look at the other man. It was a familiar presence, among these faces as anxious to watch him falter as they were to applaud him.

When the nobles finally left him alone, he felt a mixture of relief and distaste. No wonder Paris had been well-liked at court. He’d had the exact sort of personality suited to this setting, claws and teeth hidden under sheepskin. 

He wondered if these few moments of silence were the only ones he would be allowed tonight. “Hestia, give me strength,” he mouthed, picturing the quiet peace of the hidden temple. If his mind could be rested, then he would survive the night. 

When he looked up, he met Achilles’ gaze, and they stood there wordlessly. A second passed, and then Achilles’ mouth turned up in a small smile. 

He could do this. He could.  
“I was just about to say …”

“Yes?”

“It really isn’t a banquet without this song.” 

Achilles did not reply, but the smile widened a fraction.  
\---

There was a short announcement, then they were led over to their tables for the dinner service, arranged in a large rectangle around the ballroom. 

Alright, he thought, eyeing the rows of silverware meticulously arranged beside each plate. _This_ he was familiar with. Royal dinners in Priam’s hall, full-course meals. And no one would be expecting him to talk while he ate. 

Achilles stood up abruptly, and the music died down at his signal. 

“It is not only an honor,” he began, eyeing the seated guests all around them.  
“But a pleasure, for House Pelides to act as host to the nation’s finest. In the spirit of such an event, I can only say; welcome.” 

There were several murmurs of approval, some raising their glasses to him. Patroclus kept an eye out, piqued by the differences in expressions and body language. If there was any place to study the court’s perception of Achilles, it was here. Some seemed to be genuinely enjoying themselves, smiling encouragingly. Others held themselves stiffly, serious and strained. 

“Most importantly, we gather here in honor of our visitor.” With that, he raised his glass to Patroclus, and everyone in the room followed suit. 

“Paris, who arrives on behalf of our sister Troy, who follows centuries of goodwill between our two nations. I can offer nothing in return but my hospitality - but as we say in Hellas, there is no greater respect than the one found between guest and host.” Achilles paused, as though weighing his next words. 

“It is an auspicious night, for our ally arrives as witness to the changing of history. We stand under one roof, men among men, blood among blood, the power of lineage turned aside in favor of a greater future. To our sister Troy -” and he raised his glass even higher in Patroclus’ direction -  
“we welcome a friend to walk beside us on the path of change. And to this night - we welcome the knowledge of a Hellas transformed, a Hellas governed by its people.” 

It was a daring toast, Patroclus thought, as he took a sip from his glass, watching everyone else do the same. He did not miss the whispers, the looks of disdain from the aristocracy; but overall, Achilles’ speech had been well-received. There was no doubt the man had charisma. 

The first course was served, and he breathed a sigh of relief, feeling his belly rumble in protest at the long wait.  
\---

It was a pleasant enough night. The sound of clinking glasses and forks scraping against plates filled the room. The music had started up again, this time a soft, airy tune that would not disrupt the chatter. 

“I suppose these delicacies are not found in Troy?” the guest next to him asked, a burly old man with a large bald spot on his head. 

Patroclus restrained the urge to roll his eyes. Apparently the Hellenes thought of Troy as some sort of barbaric wilderness, where even beef stew would not exist.  
“I can assure you, it is not so different,” he replied. 

“And this?” The man waved a piece of bread in Patroclus’ direction. 

“That as well.” 

“Forgive me, I have never had the opportunity to sample Troy’s cuisine. But surely you have not seen this next dish!” The man clapped his hands as the servers switched their plates, a look of excitement crossing his face. 

“What -” 

The dish was uncovered, and Patroclus could only stare in horror at what was in front of him. 

“They are only harvested in the south, during the winter. You have to wait until they get fat and juicy,” the man added, cutting one with his knife and slurping it up with a sound of content. 

_Worms_. Large, slimy worms, swelling with their juices and covered in black dots. 

“This - you eat this …” 

“Try it and see! The perfect balance of southern flavor.” The man continued eating, piece after piece of gravy-covered worm going into his mouth - 

Patroclus swore he could feel the past few dishes swirling around in his stomach, threatening to come up. He picked up his fork and prodded one of the worms, then pierced it and brought it up to his mouth. He could not stop himself from gagging. 

“What?” He heard Achilles whisper, giving him a sideways glance. 

“I … they’re worms …” 

“Southern silk worms,” Achilles explained. 

“We don’t eat worms in Troy,” Patroclus managed weakly, trying not to look at the plate. 

He thought Achilles would come up with some retort, but after a second, the man shifted closer to his side. 

“Quick, slide it over.” 

Patroclus moved his plate next to Achilles’, and watched him discreetly scrape the contents onto his own plate. 

“Thank you,” he mumbled gratefully, catching Achilles’ eye.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

All in all, it had been a successful event. 

The last of the guests remained to wish Patroclus well and promote their own lands, perhaps thinking it would bring them to the forefront for trade with Troy. 

He thought he must have spent hours shaking hands, the perfume from the women clouding the air until his nose started to sting. He could feel his eyelids growing heavy, and the noise only grew as he was swept out of the ballroom, along with the gaggle of aristocrats who insisted they see him off for the night. 

When the last few carriages drove away, he let out a breath of relief. _It was over_. 

He had perhaps stumbled once or twice, but it hadn’t been anything noticeable. He had remembered every single rule of etiquette, and had been polite enough to be approachable; but not to the point where he would have been mistaken for anything _but_ a prince. 

It was exhausting, he thought. But it was also a small victory. Here was a circumstance where he had _not_ failed his king, and what a feeling it was. 

He had not failed Achilles, either, he mused. The air was cold outside, on the front steps of the house, and he drew his jacket tighter around him. It had been different than he’d expected, seeing Achilles at work among the aristocrats. 

They had been separated throughout the banquet, yet in pauses and breaks, he had found himself searching for the other man - scanning the room, until their eyes met, and it had given him a surge of reassurance, almost as though someone was standing by to catch him if he fell. 

He knew it was probably untrue. He had been on his own in there. If he had failed, he would have lost Achilles’ respect as well. Then all this would have been for nothing. 

It was remarkable how quiet the house was now. All he could hear was the river, and even that was faint. The ballroom would be empty, all the tables cleared out, the musicians having packed up their instruments and left. 

He strolled through the deserted room, marveling at how bare it looked, stretches of polished floor and high ceiling. Someone had opened the windows, letting in a breeze, and the lights had been put out, leaving it in darkness. 

What a beautiful room. He imagined it had been built for some other purpose - not the affairs of men and their politics, but for laughter and merriment. There was nothing like this in Troy, not in the palace. 

Even without light, he could make out the frescoes on the ceiling, the work of artisans who had built this room to be enjoyed. 

And the lone piano, right in the center, moved back to its original place. Such a large space for only one instrument. But it was fitting, the way its sounds could echo, carrying them as far as a person could hear. 

He took a seat on the piano bench, letting the quietness soothe him. 

“I thought I’d find you here.” 

Achilles, walking towards him. 

He squinted in the darkness, making out the other man’s features in whatever light could reach them. 

Achilles settled himself on the bench beside him.  
“Can’t ever get away, can you?” he asked, jerking his chin at the piano. “And you still haven’t asked for lessons.”

“I suppose not.” Patroclus smiled. “I like to listen.”

Achilles shot him a glance from the corner of his eye.  
“What about that national anthem? I haven’t had a chance to hear your attempt.” 

“I couldn’t,” Patroclus laughed, and looked at his feet. “It’s been so many years.” 

“You might find it has a way of staying with you.” 

They lapsed into silence, and he thought it was the exhaustion that wore down the normally thick air between them. 

Achilles had loosened his collar, and removed his cufflinks, so his sleeves hung open over his arms. He let out a great sigh, stretching out his legs.  
“What a farce,” he shook his head. 

“Chryseis said you hated these things.” 

“Did she?” Achilles raised an eyebrow. 

Patroclus straightened. “Not in a bad way, of course.” He didn’t want to get her into trouble. 

“Well, I suppose these things serve their purpose.”

“That speech you made …”

“Don’t tell me about it,” Achilles waved a hand, pushing his sleeves up even further and leaning back on the bench.  
He looked more relaxed than Patroclus had ever seen him, all guards dropped after the effortful night they’d traversed together.  
“I might as well have screamed _Hellas for the people_ and shoved it down their throats, the way they were acting.” 

Patroclus fiddled with a loose thread on his knee, not knowing what to say to that. He had thought it a fine speech. 

“You did well,” Achilles added, almost reluctantly. 

“Did you think I wouldn’t?” Patroclus asked, unable to stop himself from smiling. 

“There was a point where you were turning green.” 

It had been nauseating, at first. He was rather surprised at himself for making it through. 

“Thank you for eating my worms.” 

“Disgusting, aren’t they?” Achilles grinned. “Tasted like piss.” 

They looked at each other, then burst out laughing. 

For the first time, it occurred to him, that perhaps things would be alright. 

“Really,” Achilles said, after the laughter had died down.  
“It might not have seemed like much, but tonight will influence many to come.”

“You would have done fine without me,” Patroclus voiced. “You seem well-adjusted to them.” 

“That’s where you’re wrong.” 

More silence, and he chewed on his words, feeling that perhaps Achilles was doing the same. There were layers that had been peeled back, and now they found themselves uncertain on how to deal with it. 

“I wish there was a way to show you that this is not all there is to Hellas,” Achilles stated.  
“Olympia. It is a city like no other. But it does not encompass everything about this country.”

“You were disappointed,” Patroclus pointed out. “There is something about this city you love, and I missed it completely.” 

“I have dreamed of Olympia my entire life,” Achilles replied. “The city of great men, where heroes lay down their swords. But I realize - it was the dream of a boy, and how could you know it if you did not grow up here?” 

Patroclus looked out the window, imagining the streets ahead, how he had been captivated by it on the very first sighting. So easy to get lost, in the noises and smells. It was frightening and exhilarating all at once. Perhaps one day he would find comfort here. He didn’t know how far away that day was.

“But,” Achilles started, looking right at Patroclus, a glint in his eye from the waning light.  
“Before Olympia began, there was the rest. One cannot get to know Hellas without stepping foot onto the earth that has sustained us for generations. It’s why I intend to tour the country. A visit to each region, a way to get to know its people - for how can they know me if I do not know them?” 

“You’re leaving Olympia?” Patroclus asked, surprised. 

“If you will come with me.” 

He had to take a moment to register the words, professed so blatantly.

“After all,” Achilles continued. “I did invite you for the spring festivities. And it would be a shame indeed to have you here, without a chance to see how it is celebrated throughout the country.” 

“Festivals?” Patroclus questioned, suddenly excited. 

There were festivals in Troy during the summer, where hymns were sung and offerings made to the gods. A magical time. 

“You agree to come, then?”

“I …” He pictured those rolling greens, the forests and meadows far out from the city that he had only caught a glimpse of during his journey. There was more to it. Perhaps he would even get to see where they ended.  
“You intend to forge relationships with the landowners. To win the people’s loyalty. It’s a good plan.” 

And a difficult one. He had no idea what the Hellene countryside was like, or what to expect. 

“Perhaps you could tell me if it was anything like your home,” Achilles offered. 

Patroclus thought he liked the man, then. 

“Of course I’ll go with you. How could I refuse?” 

“Then it’s settled.” 

They nodded at each other, and Achilles started to play a slow tune, fingers finding the keys as naturally as any other. 

“It won’t be like tonight,” he mentioned. “Not stuffy and pretentious. There will be music and dancing - all the things Hellenes love.” 

“Dancing?” Patroclus chuckled. “I don’t know how to.”

Achilles paused, giving him a disbelieving look. “You’re joking.” 

“Not in Troy. King Priam doesn’t like it. Not -” he hesitated. “Not since the queen died, you know.” 

Achilles had stopped playing. 

“So he robs his people of these simple joys? All for a queen who is long dead?”

“It’s not like that,” Patroclus replied, unsettled. “He was in mourning. Queen Hecuba loved the celebrations. She was a talented singer, and a dancer.” 

“And her death justified taking it away?” 

“It wasn’t her fault!” Patroclus exclaimed, feeling the anger grow inside him. How could Achilles - ?

“I didn’t say it was. But grief cannot last forever. It cannot be allowed to overwhelm whatever goodness is left in the world.” 

“Goodness? Don’t you speak of goodness. Queen Hecuba was very kind to me,” Patroclus gritted out. 

He had to calm down. Gods, he had to calm down. 

“I would imagine so. She was your mother, wasn’t she?” 

He froze. In his anger, he had almost forgotten himself. 

“Yes. Yes of course.” 

Achilles made a satisfied sound, as though that resolved the matter. 

“I better go,” Patroclus said, rising from the bench. 

It had gotten too hot in here, and he’d thought for a moment they had started to understand each other, especially after tonight. But it seemed he was wrong about these things. 

He turned to leave, thankful it was dark enough that Achilles couldn’t see the redness of his cheeks, creeping all the way down his throat. 

“Wait.” 

A hand around his arm, stopping him.

He stood still, the touch firm over the fabric of his sleeve. Achilles had never touched him before that. 

“I’ll see you in the morning.” 

“No, wait.” 

He frowned, especially when the seconds went by and they were still frozen in silence. 

“You didn’t like what I said.” 

Patroclus clamped his mouth shut. No use arguing with the man.  
“It doesn’t matter,” he got out.

“Of course it matters.”

 _Why was he like this_? Patroclus shook his head, and tried to shake Achilles’ hand off, but his grip was steady.

“There is no problem. In fact, I look forward to our trip.” 

“I’m glad to hear it.” Gods, that matter-of-fact tone. It was driving him insane. He thought he could hear his own blood boiling, the way it pounded in his eardrums.

“I look forward to it, and it’s a good thing I’m going.” 

“Oh?”

“Yes, it’s a good thing indeed, considering you have the diplomatic skills of a - a -” He wrenched his arm free. “Of a turnip!” 

He had gone past caring if he was being rude. If Achilles wanted him to speak his mind, then so be it.

There was a long silence, and he refused to avert his gaze from Achilles’, who was staring back at him with his usual unaffected demeanor.  
Yet, the smallest hint of amusement could be seen in his eyes. 

“There aren’t any turnips in Hellas.” 

Patroclus let out a breath. “Well, you’re missing out. Good night.” 

He turned and started walking, the anger leaving him in place of resigned mortification. 

“Good night,” Achilles replied. 

He kept walking, the door swinging shut behind him, down the front steps, all the way through the path that took him back to his room by the river.  
\---

“So, how was it?” Chryseis asked, when she found him in there alone. 

He could only take one look at her and groan, burying his face in his pillow.


	7. Chapter 7

It was a grey morning, and Patroclus wondered when he would get to see the height of spring. The grass was soggy under his feet; it had rained the whole night long. He always took his time trudging over to the main house - why Achilles insisted on having breakfast at this ungodly hour, he didn’t know. 

He paused on his walk to survey the other houses - he was always curious about them. After nearly a month in Olympia, he had never observed any activity. 

“Who else stays at those houses?” he asked, pulling out a chair.

“Good morning to you too,” Achilles stated, eyeing him from over a bundle of papers he was reading. 

In the past few weeks, they had kept each other at arm’s length. He hadn’t quite known how to approach the other man; and it was something that plagued his mind, because the very next day they would embark on their trip around the country. 

“You _are_ coming with us, aren’t you?” he’d asked Chryseis, and she’d laughed at his worried face. 

The thought of going all by himself, just him and Achilles and a silent carriage - 

It was silent now, he thought, watching Achilles balance papers, a cup of tea, and a piece of bread. He had given up on all attempts at small talk. Achilles seemed to find it pointless. The man could talk for hours on just about any topic Patroclus was _not_ familiar with - the arts, history, new inventions from across the ocean - but one mention of the weather and he shut down completely like an engine that had lost its steam. 

“I _know_ it’s raining,” he’d insisted once, the other day. And had gone back to reading his papers. 

It had gotten to the point where Patroclus had begged Chryseis to show him the library, and spent hours searching for books to broaden his knowledge. He’d gotten a headache poring over those massive tomes, the print so small it seemed to blur in his eyes. 

He remembered Paris’ old tutor, a crotchety old man named Calchas, who had tapped him with a cane every time he’d read the words wrong. They weren’t anything like his mother’s picture books, with lovely illustrations and tales of extraordinary events - and so his mind had wandered, unable to concentrate on historical dates and wars and mathematical equations. 

“Dreamer!” Calchas had snapped at him, and down went the cane, across his desk to make him jump.   
“If you won’t make an effort then you can go outside and stand in the corridor!” 

He’d gotten up, red to his ears, while Paris snickered at him quietly. 

Now he felt like a helpless boy again, the facts and details swirling around in his head. 

“Oh Paris,” Chryseis had said, when she’d found him slumped over a desk in the library at night.   
“I could have brought your dinner over. You should have told me, silly. Isn’t reading much better with a nice glass of wine and a slow-roasted short rib?” 

“I’m not any good at it anyway,” he’d muttered, rubbing his eyes. “He was right about Troy. We never … learned these things. At least I never did.” 

Chryseis picked up one of his open books and brushed off the dust.   
“Geometry for Schoolchildren,” she read, squinting at the cover. “Did you enjoy this?” 

“I don’t know,” Patroclus fretted. “Do you think you could explain it to me?” 

“And reading it in Hellene, too. That makes it harder.” Chryseis put down the book and glanced around the room, surveying the shelves.   
“You know, Paris …” 

“What?” He straightened. 

Chryseis looked back at him, a twinkle in her eye. “You _are_ going to see some of the loveliest places in Hellas. Why not learn about them?”

“I tried. But there is so much history and I get really confused with dates, you see. And I never thought there could be so many disputes about winemaking and taxes and -” 

Chryseis shook her head at him, chuckling. “That’s all very well, but somehow I doubt it will be helpful. Tell me, Paris, what do you like to read?” 

“Well …” He chewed on the answer, suddenly reluctant. How could he tell her he had never read anything beyond absurd children’s tales? 

But it was Chryseis, and he knew he needn’t be embarrassed.  
“Stories.” 

“Wonderful,” she replied, and climbed up one of the ladders to the higher shelves. She descended with a few smaller books in her arms. “I think it’s only fitting. You are going to visit with the people of Hellas - and how better to know people than to learn their stories?” She handed him one of the books, and he flipped through it. 

It wasn’t a children’s book, and the print was small, but it was a collection of short stories arranged by region that caught his eye.   
“This …” Suddenly, all the intimidation was gone. He leafed through the yellowed pages, that musty old book smell filling his nose.   
“I - can’t wait to read this.” 

He looked up and grinned at Chryseis. “I suppose you’re a guardian angel of sorts, and you just never mentioned it?” 

“Sent by Hestia herself,” Chryseis replied, and winked at him.   
\---

They had been packing all day, and now he watched the line of servants loading the cart, right behind the waiting carriage. 

In a way, he was going to miss the riverside, he thought. Watching the lights dim across the surface of the water at night, waking up to the sound of flowing streams. A haven on the edge of the city. 

But he could not deny how excited he was for the trip. It had started to hit him - hills and lakes and forests, spread out across the land and waiting to be explored. He’d already gotten through two books, and he’d stayed up with a candle reading them over and over again. Folk tales, collected from generations of oral tradition, the lives of these people and how they had come to be. 

“Paris! Quick, eat something before you go!” He could hear Chryseis calling, and raced down the stairs to the kitchen. 

He ate his fill while Chryseis ordered the other servants about. It was chaos in the kitchen, everybody rushing around and making sure the carts were well-provisioned for the road. It was the busiest he had ever seen House Pelides. 

It was not like Troy, where the servants were required to stand in a line to see them off. He simply made for the carriage when it was time to go.

“Ready?” Achilles asked. He hadn’t even noticed the man coming up next to him. 

He nodded, turning around to say goodbye to Chryseis and whoever else happened to be there.   
“You have a lovely time. Make sure you enjoy the scenery for me,” Chryseis said, handing him a bundle of oranges for the road. 

He had only known her a month, and he was already going to miss her.   
“I will. There won’t be another person staring harder at those hills.” 

She laughed, and kissed his cheek. “You _are_ a riot, sometimes.”

And that was that.   
\---

The first few hours were uneventful, stretches of green fields where the grains would not be ready for harvest until the summer. The afternoon sun was streaking through the windows, hitting his eyes, and he had napped on and off, using the drapes to shield his face. 

He had no idea how Achilles managed to stay awake. The bumpy carriage rocked backwards and forwards in a rather hypnotizing rhythm. At one point the other man opened the window and pulled out a strange pipe-like instrument which he played. 

The silvery tunes went on into the night, and that was when Patroclus found himself most alert. The full moon swelled large and bright above them, and they were coming into forested territory. 

The sight of the great wide sky and those sinister dark trees below, lining both sides of the road - it made him sit up straight, forehead leaning against the glass, feeling a sense of urgency and wonder and fear of the unknown - but a good kind of fear, if such a thing existed. 

He felt the tip of a boot prodding him and turned to see Achilles had stretched out on the carriage seat. The man was too tall and was forced to scrunch up uncomfortably. 

“You can put your legs on the other side, you know.” 

Achilles looked at him. “The next time I have a brilliant idea like this, do stop me.”

“You said it wasn’t long until the next resthouse.” 

“My back is becoming a nightmare.” 

Patroclus turned his attention to the window again. “When was the last time you saw a moon like this?” 

Achilles reluctantly shifted until he was sitting again, and peered out the window. He could see both their reflections on the glass now, and it was peculiar, side by side that way. 

“It gets better. You think you’ve seen how beautiful the sky can get - wait till you get to the countryside. And then you question everything you’ve ever known. A universe so vast, and how could you have ever noticed it with those city lights blocking the view?” 

Patroclus bit his lip, the facts and details swirling around in his head again. Books on astronomy, the planets and the stars. But it was not like that, he realized, watching Achilles’ face staring out ahead. 

Perhaps he didn’t have to be a living embodiment of useful information. What was companionship but a stone cast out onto the water? Sometimes it fell flat and sank to the bottom. Other times, the ripples were made, and once he got the hang of it he would know the way to throw.

“It was something she always talked about.”

“Hmm?”

“Polyxena. My, er, sister.”

“Don’t you have many of them?”

“But we weren’t close. Polyxena, though … she went off because she wanted to see the world, to study it. I thought, you had to be very clever to understand these things. But now I think … perhaps it isn’t always about understanding, but getting to know something because you truly love it.” 

“And she loves what she’s studying, this Polyxena?” 

Patroclus smiled, thinking of her; bright-eyed enthusiasm and a voracious hunger for knowledge. “Always.”

“And you?”

He turned his face and found Achilles looking at him; and it was very silent in the carriage but he didn’t mind at all.   
“What about me? I’m hardly a student of anything.” 

Achilles’ mouth turned up in the semblance of a smile, right then.   
“I don’t think that’s true.” 

“I’m not a man of the world,” Patroclus explained. “There is only so much to see within the walls of a palace. Much of it escaped me. Whatever you think of me, and all the things I don’t know … it’s probably true.” 

“What don’t you know?” Achilles questioned, eyes fixed on him. 

“Everything.” 

Achilles tilted his head to one side, considering.   
“I think there are far better things to care about than what I think of you.”

Patroclus frowned at him. “I -”

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Achilles offered. 

Patroclus started to protest again, then stopped himself. “As a matter of fact, I don’t.” 

“Good.” 

They sat together until it was too late to do anything but wait for the sunrise.   
\---

It was bright and early in the morning when they arrived at the foothills of Elis. It was a settlement that spread right into the valley, and it was curious indeed descending the pathway that led to the very center. 

Patroclus hadn’t been sure what to expect, but it definitely wasn’t the commotion that awaited them at their residence. There were already people running along the street to receive them, a large group waving, some reaching over to touch the carriage. 

“You’re right on time!” yelled a middle-aged man with a short beard. 

“I did tell you not to make a big fuss,” Achilles yelled back, grinning wide and clapping the man on the back as he climbed out of the carriage, which had not even stopped completely. 

“How could I not? Especially with a new face?” The man turned towards Patroclus then, smiling wide and offering a hand.   
“And who is this?”

“Paris,” Patroclus breathed, quite taken aback. 

“That’s Agapenor,” Achilles threw out, already marching into the house. 

“I can introduce myself!” Agapenor objected, pretending at outrage. “It’s not everyday I meet a handsome young companion of yours.” 

“Perverted old man,” Achilles yelled over his shoulder.

“... Old friends?” Patroclus guessed, looking back and forth between them. 

“Please, come in,” Agapenor insisted, beckoning him over. “We have been waiting all night for signs of the carriage. I never expected Achilles to take me up on my offer to stay with us, you see.” 

“Do you need help?” Patroclus asked, seeing a few children running up to the cart and unloading it. 

“Oh, my sons will take care of it. Come in! My home is your home, as long as you are in Elis.” 

Agapenor was a farmer, and one who had amassed quite a large property after the revolution had forced the aristocracy to give up their lands. As a result, much of the land was returned to the people. It meant Achilles’ rule was largely favorable to the villagers of Elis, but not the case with the nobility. 

It would take some getting used to, Patroclus thought, but he already liked Agapenor’s household much better than some empty manor in the middle of nowhere. There were so _many_ people, and none of them were servants. They were all members of Agapenor’s family, cousins and aunts, nieces and nephews. 

And how _loud_ they were, but how warm. Never in his life had he been yelled greetings at in every direction, hugged and kissed by plump older women, and stared at by small children. 

He’d thought Achilles would be bothered by the noise, but the man looked right at home, trading jokes with Agapenor, helping the boys haul the luggage up the stairs. It was almost like looking at a different person. 

Who are you? Patroclus wondered that night, gaping in disbelief as Achilles took part in the drinking games, then got out his pipe instrument and played songs at everyone’s request. 

There was an entire feast laid out for them, and the food _kept coming_. And there were jugs of liquor, some clear liquid that Patroclus might have mistaken for water if it hadn’t made his head feel fuzzy. 

Agapenor’s family talked and laughed, asking him a million questions about himself, clapping in awe when they heard he was a Trojan prince. Soon enough, he found himself in the middle of a circle, each person eager to hear about his life in Troy. 

“Well …” He knew he was as red as a beetroot. He just knew it. 

“Oooh, tell us about the palace! About the queen? Is she very beautiful?” one girl asked.   
“Queens are always beautiful,” another one added. 

Patroclus tried to picture Queen Hecuba in his head.   
“She was. I think. But she … died.” 

“Oh …” They were all watching him now, and he felt rather awkward, clearing his throat to break the silence.   
“That’s his mother!” the girl hissed at her friend. “Why would you bring it up?”   
“I didn’t know!” the second girl bit back. 

“It’s alright,” he assured them. “It was a long time ago.” He thought of Hecuba, and what she had been like. His thoughts drifted to his own mother instead.   
“She had a lovely singing voice. When I was little, I used to beg her to sing this song - it’s about a maiden who turned into a tree. Do you know it?” 

In fact, he knew they did, for he had read all about it in the books Chryseis had picked out. 

“They have this song in Troy too?” the girls exclaimed. They started to hum, and he nodded at them, and then the entire circle was singing; a low, steady tune, sweet and lilting. All at once, he didn’t feel so out of place anymore. 

What was that feeling? he questioned. He couldn’t describe it. Hearing his mother’s song sung in a different tongue, the same melody in different words. It was like the edges of his heart peeled back, where scar tissue had grown; only to find new flesh underneath, unmarred. 

It was a song of losing and loving, and how perfect it had been for her. It was a song of happiness and memory, and how perfect it was for this strange land that he now realized wasn’t so strange after all. 

His gaze wandered over to the group behind them still drinking at the table, and found Achilles again; this time, smiling at him. He could do nothing but smile back. 

Perhaps there _was_ something he understood. Day after day, and it hadn’t really occurred to him where Achilles had come from. Right here, in the middle of the valley, there was a chance they could be themselves - after all, what else could they be?


	8. Chapter 8

There was a knock at his door, and a second later Achilles came in with a bundle in his arms.  
“Extra blankets.” 

Patroclus had changed into his sleeping clothes, and was listening to the old men playing some sort of dice game outside. They smoked from pipes, and the scent wafted all the way up to his window, carried by the breeze. 

He took the blankets from Achilles. There was something he wanted to say, but he wasn’t sure he knew what it was. It was an odd feeling, like it was stuck in his chest.  
“They sleep rather late here, don’t they?” he tried, looking at the blankets and the small, comfortable room, and the insects drawn to the light outside. It was heady. Almost like a dream, yet he had never felt more awake. 

“And they wake up early. Don’t be surprised to hear movement around here before dawn.” 

There were a few minutes where they were just standing there, listening to the sounds around them. Achilles jerked his chin at the blankets and they unrolled them, spreading them over the bed. 

“Comfortable?” 

Patroclus nodded, and Achilles turned to leave. 

“Achilles?”

“Yes?” The other man turned back, already in the doorway, and his face was rather different than it had been before. Softer, perhaps. The edges smoothed out. Almost like he had found some sort of rest, being out here among his people. 

Patroclus bit his lip. Why couldn’t he find the words when he wanted them? He shook his head instead, smiling. He thought he was going to like it here. He really did. 

Achilles stood in the doorway for another moment, seeming to search for something in Patroclus’ face. He nodded. “Well, good night.” 

“Good night.” 

The other man gave him a tentative smile, and closed the door. 

A few minutes later, when Patroclus had settled into bed, he heard the tinny music of the pipe. He lay back, not wanting to go to sleep for some reason. And then he laughed, because he was miles away from anywhere familiar, miles away from the city - and it was only the beginning.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The days passed and they were hot and clear-skied; he had wished to see spring, here it was. 

There was a large celebration for the equinox, and the preparations led up to that. They rode mules to the fields where Agapenor and his relatives worked, to the fruit orchards and vineyards. 

The houses grew smaller and more colorful the further out they went, the people ever more excited to see visitors passing through. They seemed to recognize Achilles from sight - many times he was invited into homes, given gifts of food and textiles and woodwork. 

Most exciting of all were the vineyards far out on the hills, where the grapes could grow at higher altitudes - they made their trek in early morning, Agapenor leading the way. 

“Hestia,” Patroclus breathed, standing at the top and gazing down at the valley below, where the houses they had just passed by gleamed in their different colors. He thought of Chryseis, and stared harder, and laughed at himself for doing so. 

“If I can convince you to make another trip in autumn,” Agapenor stated. He winked at Patroclus. “Surely Paris will like to see the harvest? And what good wine it makes, too.” 

“It is very good wine,” Achilles confirmed. He shrugged. “If you don’t mind being forced by Agapenor here to partake in the grape-stomping.” 

“But you must!” Agapenor insisted. “It is the best part of the harvest.” The man settled down on the land and unpacked their lunch. His face had turned serious as he and Achilles exchanged a look.  
“This wouldn’t be so if it weren’t for you,” he said.

“Stop it,” Achilles replied. 

“It’s only true.”

“The land is yours, and what could you have done but claim it?” 

“And things have only gone uphill from there. We have never been so blessed.” 

Patroclus had been listening in. “The debt payments,” he guessed. 

Achilles and Agapenor looked at him. 

“All of this land belonged to the House of Elis?” 

“I was not able to seize all of it,” Achilles frowned. “It would have resulted in outright chaos. So we come here in hopes to renegotiate. They have an ancestral claim over the land - yet it is Agapenor and his family who have worked the fields and maintained them for generations. It is rightfully theirs.”

Patroclus had discovered that the feudal system in Hellas was far more complicated than he’d originally thought. It differed from region to region - in order to achieve what Achilles was aiming for, a country where the land belonged to the people, they had to navigate centuries of old customs and traditions that barred their way. 

“I’m guessing the lords of Elis are not particularly favorable to you?” 

“Didn’t you notice?” Achilles asked, smiling cynically. “They did not attend the banquet that night. A public slight.” 

“When do we negotiate?” Patroclus asked, and Achilles looked at him in surprise. 

“I have managed to secure an invitation to their household in time for the equinox. It was like pulling teeth.” Achilles hesitated, as though weighing his next words. “You could come with me.” 

Patroclus had expected him to ask. After all, the whole point of him being here was to show these nobles that Achilles was not completely against the ways of Old Hellas. Perhaps they could earn some respect.

He mused over it the entire day. He could not imagine proud, jovial Agapenor bowing down to strict overlords, giving up his crops and his earnings and offering his children for service. Not too long ago, that had been the case. 

Perhaps there really had been no other way but the most drastic - no other person, Patroclus thought, stealing a glance at Achilles. A true visionary who would pave the road for others behind him.  
\---

House Elis was a large collection of stone buildings beyond the hills, surrounded by empty fields.  
“Those still belong to them,” Achilles pointed out, from the carriage window.  
“And the villagers who live there remain under their debt.”

“How loyal are the people to the House of Elis?” 

“It is different here,” Achilles replied. “When the revolution began, Elis was a turning point for the road to Olympia. Much of my work involved rallying the people to my cause - we led marches through the streets. The workers left the fields, and refused to work. There was much destruction to the outer buildings, where the House of Elis stored their grains.” He indicated the buildings they were approaching.  
“Elis was the first to give up their property, to begin negotiations with the people who had been their serfs. They had no choice, because they would starve.” 

Patroclus had never really asked about the revolution before. He had a rough idea of what it had been like.  
“But couldn’t they have called on the palace to protect them?” During the reign of the Atreidae, the army had been controlled by the royal family. 

Achilles smirked. “The royals had other things to worry about. Besides - where do you think these soldiers come from? Whose sons and daughters are they?” 

Patroclus paused to consider. The soldiers were not royals or aristocrats. They were the children of commoners, pledged to the Atreidae in service to their country. By gaining support from the people, Achilles had also annexed a significant portion of the army. It was becoming clearer now how exactly the House of Atreus had fallen. 

“Here we are.” Achilles’ face had turned grim as the carriage pulled up in the driveway.  
\---

Three days, and Lord and Lady Elis had done nothing but stall the negotiations. Patroclus could see that Achilles was growing impatient. 

“It is what I expected,” he stated. “But the equinox approaches, and we have not made any progress.” He was so disgruntled that he did not even join in the feasting that night. 

“We might have to make do,” Agapenor confided, when he and Patroclus were alone in the room together. “War is one thing, but it is another matter completely to change minds. Sometimes, it is simply impossible.” 

Impossible? Patroclus thought of it, but didn’t speak further. Somehow he didn’t believe it was so. If Achilles had made significant changes through force, then he would have to relearn the ropes. Difficult, but not impossible.  
\---

They were on another fruitless visit to House Elis, and Patroclus observed the servants making preparations for the coming festival. 

“It would have been an honor to have you as a guest, prince,” said Lady Elis, whom he had discovered seemed to pull the strings in the household. She was a tall, dignified lady, and absolutely refused to look Achilles in the eye. Every time they spoke, it was Patroclus she addressed.  
“Alas, we did not know you were coming.” She sounded apologetic, but Patroclus did not miss the look she threw at Achilles, who was standing in the corner speaking to her husband. 

“Lady Elis, I am only grateful to partake in the festival.” Patroclus looked around. It was a grand house, almost like the Trojan palace in many ways.  
“I count myself lucky to visit a place so beautiful - you must be proud indeed of your home.” 

A pleased look crossed Lady Elis’ face. “Did you know,” she started, taking on a confiding tone. “House Elis has hosted the festival for generations. People would come far and wide to see it, and the roads would be lined with peasants traveling to and from our household.”

“Surely that hasn’t changed?” 

Lady Elis snuck another disdainful look at Achilles. “Our household is not what it was.” 

“It must have been a spectacle, among your countrymen watching the changing of the seasons.” Patroclus had been thinking about what to say. How could he help Achilles? The nobles at Elis despised him for taking what was theirs, and their minds would not be changed. 

Yet they had been as welcoming as any to a foreign royal. How could one begin to unite a country where beliefs were so divided? 

He found a moment to take Achilles aside that afternoon.  
“Lady Elis speaks of a time when her house was respected by the people.” 

“As I have said, time and time again. These people live in the past,” Achilles scoffed. 

“You’re not listening,” Patroclus argued, locking gazes with him.  
“They don’t want to speak to you, because you don’t know how to speak to them.” 

“That isn’t news.” But he had Achilles’ attention, at least. 

“It isn’t just about the land. Do you know why Trojans continue to support their king, even with the conflict among my brothers?” 

“They don’t know anything else.” 

“Because he offers them _security_ ,” Patroclus gritted, needing Achilles to understand.  
“You mean to unite Hellas, and win the respect of the nobility - but you have done nothing to show you respect _them_.” 

Achilles made a chagrined noise. “That’s because I -”

“It is not about your beliefs,” Patroclus cut in. “Speeches are one thing. An effort to maintain relations with Troy is another. But they have lost authority, they have lost ancestral claim, and it is humiliating.”

Achilles listened, eyes glittering with appraisal. “Then what do you propose?” 

“You can’t change their minds. But you _can_ recruit them, if you show them the future. There is a way to turn their defeat into an opportunity.” 

He could practically see the wheels turning in Achilles’ head. The man did not need things spelled out for him. 

“Elis, as allies?” he asked. “Why would they agree?” 

“You already have the loyalty of their people. Now you ask the nobles to pledge loyalty to you, and in turn, loyalty to Hellas. In return, you offer them protection.” Patroclus had unconsciously found the silver ring beneath his shirt. 

“Protection.” Achilles was stroking his chin, considering. 

“That is what a leader does,” Patroclus said, softly. 

They exchanged a look. 

“I …” Achilles frowned. “I will decide by tonight.” 

Patroclus nodded. All he had needed was for Achilles to listen. The man could be appealing to the masses, because he was one of them. Patroclus could do nothing but offer the perspective of the other side - after all, Priam had failed in controlling his sons because he had not understood them. A step in the opponent’s shoes - perhaps that was often overlooked.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Look out for old Amphimacus! He might seem harmless, but he cheats!” 

Patroclus laughed, balancing the dice in his hand and throwing it against the board. The old men had caught him watching them, and before he knew it, he was a part of their game. He couldn’t even remember agreeing.  
“You can’t want me on your team! I’ll lose all your money!” he exclaimed.

“Pah!” A small group had gathered around them, and they cheered each side on. Patroclus still wasn’t certain he comprehended the rules, or if he was even playing it right, but no one seemed to care. They threw dice and flicked pieces on the board until they reached the center. Old Amphimacus was beating him out by three spaces. 

“Get your coin ready, men,” Patroclus sighed. “I’m afraid Amphimacus has this one in the bag.” 

“The game isn’t over yet!” 

Another round, and this time the numbers were high. There was a strategy to it, but Patroclus had just been moving the board pieces at random while the group yelled suggestions at him. Old Amphimacus had a sly smile on his face, confident on his position. 

And then as luck had it, Patroclus’ very last piece was moved into the center - effectively winning the game.  
“Yes!!” The men around him were cheering, and had started to tackle old Amphimacus and his teammates. They rifled through each other’s pockets and grabbed the coins. 

Patroclus had nowhere to go, entangled in the rowdiness, hands clapping his back and trying to hand him winnings. 

“Need a hand?” someone whispered, and a strong arm pulled him out of the crowd. 

He found himself face to face with Achilles, who steered him into a quieter corner of the house. 

“I won at Dead Man Crew,” he beamed, unable to contain his excitement. 

Achilles pressed his lips together, trying to keep in his laughter.  
“It’s Dead Man’s _Crow_. The crow goes in the middle.” He said nothing further, simply looking at Patroclus with an expression never seen before.

“What?” Patroclus voiced, the excitement fading away. 

“I spoke to them.” 

“And?” Gods, he could feel his heart beating faster. Why wouldn’t Achilles just come out with it?

“When we return to Olympia, there will be an invitation extended for their visit. In the meantime, I will make arrangements with Agapenor to ensure House Elis receives sufficient supplies, all in the spirit of Hellas’ goodwill, of course. The country provides.” 

“So they agreed?” Patroclus pressed, the relief mounting up. 

Achilles nodded. “Reluctantly. You were … right. That I do not know how to speak to them.” He looked like it pained him to admit this. 

“But … we did it!” And he was squeezing Achilles’ arms, feeling for the first time a sense of accomplishment. It raced through him, and in that moment, he forgot everything he had ever feared about himself; the worry and embarrassment of not being enough. 

“We did.” A small smile had taken over Achilles’ face now. “It is cause to celebrate.” 

“I don’t think I can eat any more,” Patroclus warned him. Nearly two weeks in Elis, and he was fed bread and sweets and local treats by the hour. 

It only made Achilles laugh, and usher him over to Agapenor’s cart which they used for nearby trips.  
“There is a place you haven’t seen yet. I think you will like it.”  
\---

“Do you ever stop playing?” Patroclus asked, listening to the melodies of the pipe. It was not quite the piano, but it was still nice. 

“I can hardly drag over that large grand piano. When you become used to something …”

“I know,” Patroclus replied. He had both feet in the water, feeling the cool stream rush over his toes. It was foggy up here, and they had trekked quite a way - 

But when he had caught a glimpse of it, that first sight of the waterfall … it had tugged at something in him. Almost like seeing the temple of Hestia in the cave. Some secret place hidden within the ordinary. 

“Want a go?” 

Patroclus took the pipe from Achilles. It was much lighter than he thought - some type of reed with holes drilled into the sides, and a mouthpiece. Several minutes passed, and what could be heard was a series of sounds like geese squawking as he tried to play. 

“Those are the sounds the chickens made when the farmer killed them,” Patroclus lamented, handing it back to Achilles. “Back in Troy, I mean.”

Achilles looked like he was stifling laughter again. “I didn’t know you witnessed such bloody murder.” 

“I helped him pluck the feathers.” Patroclus frowned, remembering it. He hadn’t wanted to, but Evander had seen him dithering around with nothing to do and ordered him to help with dinner. He hadn’t thought of Evander in a while. 

“And you insisted life in Troy wasn’t exciting.” 

Patroclus looked up at Achilles. It was … rather nice. The man could be so reserved, but there were times when he was just like this - open, and carefree, and rather easily amused. 

“Perhaps we should start a chicken farm in Olympia,” he grinned.

“Perhaps.” 

Achilles paused, and before Patroclus even realized he was moving, dove into the water. 

“It must be freezing cold!” he exclaimed, scrambling over. Achilles was already swimming up to the waterfall, his blonde head the only thing visible gliding up to the end. 

“Well, perhaps I like it that way!” 

Patroclus stared, then started to laugh. “You’re absolutely insane, aren’t you?” And he didn’t know what came over him, but he jumped right in. 

They swam for a time, and he couldn’t remember it ever being like this. During the hotter months in Troy, they had visited the king’s summer palace. Paris liked spending time at the lake - but Patroclus had always been wary, nervous of what the prince would do when they were alone together in a large body of water. He had always waited for Evander to come round before he even set foot in the lake. 

“We’re going to regret this when we get out,” Achilles muttered. And they did. 

But it didn’t matter, he thought, freezing in his wet clothes waiting for the sun to emerge. He looked over at Achilles and they shared a grin - and he wondered what it would have been like if he’d known the man _then_. Would they have been friends? 

“You -” Achilles started, and stopped himself. 

Patroclus gazed at him in curiosity. Achilles was not one to rein in his words.  
“What is it?”

“You’re rather surprising.” 

“I …” He didn’t know what to say to that, and Achilles was looking at the ground.  
“Only because you don’t know me very well,” Patroclus got out. “Wait long enough, and you won’t say that anymore.” 

“I doubt that.” Achilles caught his eye. “I doubt that very much.” 

Patroclus looked away, suddenly feeling self-conscious. 

“I didn’t -" Achilles continued, stopping again. All of a sudden, their easy exchanges seemed a thing of the past. Achilles chewed on his words, eyes flickering back and forth as though he struggled for what to say.

“I didn’t expect you to care what would happen.” 

“You brought me here,” Patroclus pointed out. “We agreed to work together, didn’t we?”

“Yes, but ... what you said in House Elis. Those were not the words of someone who was only in it for personal gain. You could have stood by and watched me fail.” 

“Do I strike you as someone who would do that?” 

Achilles looked at him for a long time, seeming to search at him.  
“No,” he said, softly this time. 

They lapsed into silence, and soon enough their clothes were dry, ready to return to the house.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was a knock at his door.  
“Clean blankets.” 

Without even having to say anything, they unfolded the quilts and spread them over the bed.

“Alright?” Achilles asked. 

“Alright.” 

Achilles nodded and turned to leave. 

Patroclus willed the words to come out this time.

“Achilles?” 

Achilles turned around, looking at him expectantly. 

“... Your people are wonderful,” Patroclus said, trying to keep the red from reaching his face. 

There was a second of quiet, and then a real smile brightened Achilles’ face, reaching his eyes. 

\---

Later in bed, the insects were still buzzing around the dimming lights. The voices of old men playing Dead Man’s Crow reached the window. Then the sound of the reed pipe, piercing through the air, and its familiar music lulled him to sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

Springtime really brought some nice sunsets, Patroclus thought, looking out at the sky in appreciation. He could imagine Polyxena right beside him now, feet swinging over the battlements, her sketching papers in one hand. Closest one could get to capturing a moment of beauty, she had said. But wasn’t it funny? 

How each person remembered it a different way, interpreted it a different way. What was the world but a collection of different truths, seen through the eyes of the many? What kind of world would it be otherwise? Empty, and meaningless. The clouds could be streaked with gold and the sun bowing for the moon but they meant nothing without eyes that could see them and minds to remember them. 

Now he understood what Polyxena had meant. The closest to capturing it, but never complete. 

“It’s starting!” someone yelled, and he whirled round to see people running out of the house. 

They had spent the whole morning tying ribbons in the trees, until the entire neighborhood seemed a wonderland of drifting colors. 

“What do you wish for?” one of Agapenor’s daughters had asked.

“What?”

“Make a wish!” she’d insisted, waving the ribbons at him. “Look, I’ve got five! I can give you one of mine.” 

“That’s very generous of you,” he’d laughed, taking a blue ribbon from her. 

What _would_ he wish for? he’d wondered, smoothing it out in his palm. He’d eyed the activity around him, spotting Agapenor lifting one of his grandchildren on his shoulders to reach the higher branches. Never a moment of quiet, in this household, yet he could hardly say there wasn’t peace. 

Week after week, and he had grown as accustomed to this place as though he’d lived here all his life. He watched the laughing children and the old men from the dice game, the rosy-cheeked women who nagged and kissed their husbands at the same time. They had something he had never even thought to dream of. Even here in the valley, where they were considered peasants and dismissed by the nobles, they led lives far richer than one could ever hope for. 

He grinned, reaching up to tie the ribbon on a low-hanging branch. He knew what he would wish for.   
\---

Now evening gave way to night and the locals were gradually making their way to the spring road, which went all the way up the valley, past the hills and towards House Elis, at which the festival would be hosted again. He had asked the locals what the spring road would look like, and they had only gotten a mischievous gleam in their eyes, as though to say wait and see. 

It would take the whole night to reach House Elis, but the walk was slow and companionable. People sang songs and talked and old ladies carried baskets of treats. Agapenor’s daughters grabbed his hands, insisting he join their group. 

They reached the top of the valley and he caught his first glimpse of the road. 

“Come along, Paris,” the girls said, tugging at him. He had gone still, eyes frozen on the path before him.

“Hestia Eternal,” he breathed. 

It was like spring herself had awakened, covering the road in the first blossoms of the year. It must have taken forever. The entire pathway was covered in flower petals, red and pink and yellow, so deep it was like wading through a river. He could see the colors all the way to House Elis in the distance. 

There were children already laughing in delight, playing in the flowers, rolling around and tossing them in the air. The road seemed to bathe the air in its perfume, but it wasn’t cloying or overwhelming. Simply as though the world had been reborn again, fresh and sweet as a bud.

He heard familiar laughter on the other side of the road, and turned his head to see Achilles and Agapenor walking together. They met gazes, and he grinned wide. There was something fateful about a time when day and night were equal. A balance in the universe, and it was the first time he felt it. 

“Sing us the song about the tree maiden, Paris,” the girls insisted, and he was hesitant at first. But they linked arms with him and he found he had forgotten to be embarrassed; he started singing, voice raspy with disuse, but once they joined in he could catch the tune. He sang in his language and they sang in theirs, and even with the different words the harmonies blended together. 

The group of old dice men walked by and he waved at them. He felt like he knew the entire village, had come to know them, and could recognize each face like they were friends at the table. That was what belonging felt like, it occurred to him, and the feeling stayed warm in his chest the entire way to the end of the road.   
\---

Inside the building there were tables laid with food, barrels of drink that seemed endless. Lord and Lady Elis watched the proceedings with pride; he even noticed Lady Elis giving Achilles a subtle nod. 

There were garlands of flowers hanging down from the ceiling, so that it was like walking through a veil. He kept bumping into people, the garlands brushing over his face, and eventually he lost track of the girls. He wandered around in the maze of people, elbows and shoulders and feet. 

There were fireworks outside, but he couldn’t find the way out from the hall. It was quite the ruckus, people yelling out the names of their relatives, of friends they had lost in the sea of bodies. 

And then he bumped into a broad back; the man turned around. 

“You found me.” 

“I did,” he smiled. 

Achilles reached up and batted the garlands away from his head. “So many damn flowers,” he complained, but Patroclus could see he wasn’t truly irked.   
“I suppose we should try and see the fireworks.” 

“If we can find them,” Patroclus chuckled, and took Achilles’ arm when it was offered.

“It’s like the blind leading the blind,” Achilles muttered, and they weaved their way through the bodies. 

Several minutes passed and he realized they were going in circles. 

“This way?” Achilles suggested.

“This way.” Off they went. 

And then; “This way?”

“This way,” he confirmed. 

And they were going round and round and not anywhere near the exit at all, but Achilles didn’t seem to care, and neither did he. 

“This way?” Achilles asked at last, and snorted with laughter. 

They found a wall where they could wait until the crowd had dispersed. 

“It’s good to know if I get lost somewhere, you won’t be able to help me; but at least I’ll have company,” Achilles remarked, giving him a smile. 

“I never claimed I was good with directions,” Patroclus objected. They could just about hear each other, now that almost everyone was outside.

“Shall we?” asked Achilles, when they finally saw the exit. 

Patroclus found he wasn’t even thinking about the fireworks anymore, but off they went to join the others outside.   
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Their time here was coming to an end. He was surprised to find he was not wistful at all, but savored each day like a hearty meal. It was the same as always. They went on trips through the farmland with Agapenor, visited homes in the village; and after dinner he played Dead Man’s Crow until he was almost sure he had gotten the hang of it. 

Yet, it was when the lights in the house had started to dim that he found himself waiting. The hallways would quiet down, everybody getting settled for the night. Then he would bundle up as warm as he could, and race down the stairs to the back garden where he could just about make out Achilles’ figure, also wrapped warmly over his sleeping clothes. 

“Shall we?” Achilles would ask, and they would walk all the way to the overgrowth beyond. It didn’t matter where they went - the path always took them someplace new, whether it was one of Agapenor’s fruit orchards or the grassy fields. 

He had forgotten all about dusty books and facts and details. It was like those evening walks he had taken by himself in Olympia - too serene to be muddled with worried thoughts. 

There was a soft wind tonight, and they could still hear fireworks from House Elis - it had been going on an entire week. He saw a stray ribbon leftover on a tree, and turned to Achilles.

“What did you wish for?” he asked.

Achilles raised an eyebrow at him. “Wish for?”

“The ribbon on the tree,” Patroclus reminded him. 

Achilles shook his head and smirked. “Sneaky, aren’t you? I _know_ you know that we aren’t supposed to tell anyone.” 

“You never struck me as superstitious.”

“Well, if you’re so bold, why don’t you tell me what _you_ wished for?”

Patroclus paused, looking at the path ahead of them. His hand was tucked in the crook of Achilles’ elbow; his fingers found the other man’s arm.

“To come back here one day.” 

Achilles looked at him. The silence stretched out between them. 

“I hope it comes true,” the other man said, softly. 

They had stopped in the middle of the path, and now they kept walking. 

He had other things to say. There were words for joy and excitement, words that could perhaps encompass all he had seen and felt and experienced if he had been a more eloquent man. But he was not that man, only someone who could barely grasp that he’d had a taste of what it was to … what it was … he shook his head at himself.   
_What it was to see a place like home, and desire it for himself._  
It was not Troy, it was not the palace. It was that feeling he had only tasted so fleetingly, but would stay with him always. 

He looked at Achilles and wondered if the man had ever yearned for the same.   
“Was it like this?” 

“Hmm?”

“Your home.” 

Achilles did not say anything for a long time.   
“I’m guessing you don’t mean Olympia.” 

Patroclus shook his head. A few more seconds of quiet, and it came back to him; the anxiousness that he had said the wrong thing again. 

“No,” Achilles finally replied. “It was not like this.”   
He lapsed into a sort of stony silence, the expression on his face darkening.   
“That-” he managed. “All that squalor.” 

He could feel how tense Achilles had gotten under his hand, and pulled back a little.   
“I’m - I didn’t mean to -”

“It’s no matter.” 

“But I shouldn’t have -” And the sentence was stuck in his mouth like stones. 

Achilles suddenly stopped walking and turned to him until they were face to face.   
“Look at that face,” he stated, shaking his head seriously.

Patroclus was caught off guard.   
“What?” 

“What is it about me?” Achilles asked.   
He leaned forward, and Patroclus realized how close they were standing.  
“What is it that makes you so nervous?” 

“I’m not -”

“You can hardly get a sentence out. Speak. Have I done something?”

“No. No, you haven’t.” Patroclus shook his head, alarmed. 

Achilles was waiting for him to continue, and he took a deep breath. 

“I thought you couldn’t stand me,” he admitted. 

The other man searched his face, eyes roaming, and they were very black in the darkness. 

“And why would you think that?” 

“Because -” and this time Patroclus managed a sheepish smile.   
“I’m a spoiled palace brat, aren’t I?”

Achilles didn’t seem to have any reply to that. The tension left his shoulders, and he looked at the ground. Slowly, his lips quirked upwards in amusement. 

“Was it so obvious?” 

Patroclus started to relax, then.   
“Yes.” 

They looked at each other, and before long the air had thinned out between them. 

Achilles started to laugh.  
“Well, there’s another one of my secrets for you.”

“What?” 

“That I can be blind as well as foolish.” 

Patroclus could sense the wall crumbling away; all of a sudden, it was as though he could say anything.   
“I assumed you thought _me_ the foolish one. I knew nothing of what you spoke of, could hardly fathom your ideas. Who would want such dull company?” 

Achilles shook his head. “Never that,” he murmured.   
“I admit to my thoughts on the monarchy. But I wasn’t fair to you - and it only served me right to be proven wrong. There are times when a man deserves to be humbled, especially when he cannot see the truth.”

“But the truth is,” Patroclus started, and grimaced. “The truth is, I _am_ someone who would never understand the complexities you speak of.” 

“The truth,” Achilles argued - “is that I have lived for so long with my own ideas - my own vision of what the world should be, that I forget what it _is_. You have something I have never learned, that I never thought to see the value of until now. There are facts, there are details. There are strategies and tactics. But people are not made up of these things. And you - you understand people.” 

Patroclus had fallen silent. 

“I never thought about it that way,” he acknowledged. 

“Isn’t there something new to be found every day,” Achilles commented. 

And just like that, they were back to how they were, strolling through the fields until they could go no further.   
\---

Later, it must have been nearing morning when they climbed the stairs in the house, careful not to make too much noise and wake the other inhabitants. 

“Do you wonder what it would be like if we’d just kept walking and walking?” Patroclus whispered, snickering. “Perhaps Agapenor would have to send out a search party.” 

“Or perhaps it would just be a matter of sore feet,” Achilles replied, amused, and bent down to pick at the lovegrass that had stuck itself to his ankles. 

“Don’t fall down the stairs,” Patroclus said, finding the door to his room.

“Don’t laugh at me if I do.”   
\---

He went to bed grinning.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He leaned out the window and took it in as much as he could. A last hour in Elis. How grand, he thought, content. 

“Paris!” Agapenor knocked at his door. “Could you come down here and help me figure something out?” 

“Of course!” he yelled back, and hurried to open the door. 

Agapenor blinked back at him.  
“Why,” he said, getting a look. “Look at that smile!” 

Patroclus could only raise his eyebrows at him in curiosity. 

“Isn’t Achilles lucky to see it all the time?” 

“Well,” Patroclus ducked his head, face heating up again.   
“What did you need?” 

Agapenor led him down the stairs, into the kitchen, where nearly his entire family was gathered. 

Patroclus could only stand slack-jawed at the sight. 

“Could you help us figure out what to do with this?” 

In the middle of the table stood a large cake. They had iced it in blue and silver, red and gold - the colors of Troy and Hellas, side by side. 

“Oh,” Patroclus said, feeling his eyes prickle. 

“You will visit us again,” Agapenor stated firmly, as though there were no other possibility. 

Patroclus could only pull the man into a hug. These people. Rowdy, rambunctious, and loud. Warm, and wonderful, and kind.   
\---

He kept the window open so he could wave at them all the way down the street. The younger ones ran along the carriage until they could run no more, and it was his last glance at the village. 

He and Achilles shared a look as they went out onto the road, leading them from the valley and towards their next stop; Laconia. 

And that was that.


	10. Chapter 10

_What was that sound?_ Patroclus yawned and threw off the covers; the stone floor was cold under his feet. There was a beetle of some sort that had been keeping him awake the whole night - it rattled and buzzed, and he couldn’t figure out which direction it was coming from. 

He threw open the windows. “There. Out with you.” 

Outside, dappled sunlight filtered through the trees. How tall they were. Three days in Laconia and he couldn’t quite register the extent of woodland around them. He slept with his back to the window, the covers pulled up tight, because try as he might he could not stop imagining some specter looking back at him. 

Just like all those illustrations in his mother’s picture books - he would walk down the trails, imagining a witch around the next corner, lurking in wait or mixing potions. So dense and lush the forest was, and the estate they stayed in was only a step away.

Laconia was not like Elis, Achilles had warned him. They would not see villagers in high spirits, with a claim to the land. It was still very much under the control of its lords. Brothers, all of whom were unmarried. 

Downstairs, he found the main dining hall already set for breakfast. It was a primitive sort of building - all rough stone and furs on the ground, mounted heads of animals on the walls. He tried not to stare at their glassy eyes as he walked past. 

He could already hear people outside, the sound of horse hooves. And at the table, a lone figure, sipping his tea.  
Thrasymedes was the oldest, and had insisted on being addressed by name. He was not what Patroclus had expected. 

“He didn’t attend the banquet either,” Achilles had told him, the day they had arrived there. “But for different reasons. Their father had just died.”

The lords of Laconia were nothing like the fawning, scrutinizing aristocrats Patroclus had met so far. They were far too preoccupied with their own region. Even Achilles seemed to get along with them. 

“They seem to be benevolent overseers,” Patroclus had remarked, seeing how the brothers managed their affairs. But he knew not to say too much - Achilles was not bound to be satisfied until the land was returned to Hellas. He and Thrasymedes were engaged in meetings all afternoon long. 

“He’s an interesting man,” Achilles had said, the day before. “An intellectual, you could say. It was not his first choice to assume leadership of the region, but such is the fate of the firstborn.”

“So you think negotiations will go well?” Patroclus had pressed. 

“I think he will not be won over by festivals - nor does he seek protection from the country. But he is a concerned man with a heavy weight on his shoulders, and we might be able to reach some common ground.” 

And some common ground they did reach, for Achilles and Thrasymedes could spend hours in the latter’s study, discussing literature and geography and other topics that flew right over Patroclus’ head. 

“Admit it,” Patroclus had whispered, one night at dinner. “You’ve made a friend, haven’t you?” He wouldn't stop teasing Achilles even with the latter's look of exasperation. 

“I wouldn’t go so far as to call it that.”

“Who else in Olympia are you able to talk to this way?”

“You,” Achilles had stated, matter-of-factly. 

Patroclus had had to hide his smile. “You _have_ to keep in touch with him after we leave.” 

“Paris,” Achilles had said, giving him a sort of fond, resigned look. “Interacting with high society back home is horrendous enough as it is. I don’t care to add to it.” 

“So you say.” 

That had been the end of that conversation, but he was certain he had been right about it. 

Entering the dining hall now, he saw Thrasymedes giving him a polite nod. “He’s outside,” the older man said. He had a very serious face and eyes that seemed distracted at all times.

“Aren’t you going to join them today, Thrasymedes?” Patroclus asked. All of the Laconian brothers were riding aficionados. Much of their land was reserved only for the horses. 

Thrasymedes shook his head. “My mother’s family arrives to discuss the matter of the dowry.”  
They had, in fact, arrived during a time of significant change for the Laconian estate. Thrasymedes had just announced his betrothal to a distant cousin, and the building was constantly busy with visits to and fro on behalf of the bride’s party. 

“I wish you luck,” Patroclus replied, and he did. He could not imagine being the oldest son of a noble house, expected to marry and produce heirs after the sudden death of his father. But at the same time, the prospect of a Hellene wedding was something that excited him. 

He could still remember the only wedding he’d attended in Troy; Hector and Andromache’s. A brief period of happiness right before everything was turned upside down. Only a few months later, there had been unrest among the princes. They deserted the court, establishing their own royal houses against their father. The fighting went on. How quickly loyalties could be divided.  
\---

The sound of galloping hooves, and a team of horses drew up to the building’s courtyard, handled expertly by their riders. Patroclus could not help gaping in awe. He had once heard that Laconian horses were the best in the world - and they certainly did not disappoint. 

“What do you think?” Achilles called, and he turned his head to see the man leading a beautiful bay stallion. 

Patroclus stepped back out of reflex. Back in Troy, it had been ingrained in him to keep out of the riders’ way during the hunting season.

“He’s …” He backed away further, as the horse continued to approach. 

“His name is Asterion. Fitting, don’t you think?” Achilles asked, pointing at the white mark on the horse’s head, gleaming like a star. 

“Why do you need two horses?” Patroclus asked suspiciously. Achilles already had his own, a grey called Xanthos. 

Achilles smirked, taking Patroclus’ hand and turning it so the palm was open wide. 

“Wait a second -”  
And before he knew it, the reins were dropped right in his hand. 

“Today, you are going to ride by yourself.” 

“I most certainly am not.” He had only taken short rides, on the Laconians’ oldest, calmest steeds, always with someone leading. Even that had been nauseating. 

Achilles ignored him and steered Asterion around, showing Patroclus the stirrup where he would place his feet. 

He was going to look like an idiot. 

“He doesn’t bite,” Achilles assured him, patting Asterion’s side. 

Patroclus could only stand frozen to the ground, conscious of the other riders in the group watching him from afar.  
“I’m not sure I can -” He was sure he _couldn’t_. _That_ he was sure of. 

“I’ll be right beside you,” Achilles murmured, leaning down so his voice was low in Patroclus’ ear.  
“Don’t look at them,” he said, when Patroclus turned towards the other riders who were waiting patiently. 

“I’m going to fall.”

“No, you’re not.” 

He took a deep breath. Alright, perhaps he could try. Slowly, he placed a hand on the saddle, fingertips brushing against Asterion’s mane. The horse made no movement, and it calmed him down a little. 

“How perfect he is,” Achilles commented, distracting him with talk.  
“You don’t think so?” 

“He’s beautiful,” Patroclus replied, voice wavering a little. He lifted a leg and placed his foot in the stirrup, hand shaking the whole way. He was afraid Asterion would feel how hard he gripped the saddle. 

And then up he went, Achilles watching him the whole time, and he was seated. The sudden height made his stomach lurch a little, but his hands and neck were tingling, a small elation. 

“Nice and smooth,” Achilles remarked, approvingly. He reached over and tapped Patroclus’ hands, making him loosen his hold a little. Then he went ahead and mounted his own horse, effortlessly, and rode up alongside.  
“Right beside you,” he said again, and they exchanged a look. 

“You’re joining us, Paris?” one of the other riders called. 

Patroclus turned his head reluctantly and met their grinning faces.  
“Looks like it,” he managed weakly.

And they rode.  
\---

He was sure he made mistakes with the reins, and forgot to grip with his knees, but Achilles’ steady presence next to him kept him from going into a panic. Asterion was too well-trained, he suddenly realized. Even for an inexperienced rider like himself, it was unlikely for something to go wrong. 

They went as far as the grasslands, and he could not keep up with the other riders’ pace, but he and Achilles rode side by side along the smaller trail. 

“There,” Achilles said, seeing him start to relax and enjoy himself.  
“Now you can say you have truly experienced what Laconia has to offer!” 

“So I don’t have to do this again?” Patroclus inquired, and it made Achilles laugh.  
\---

But as it turned out, Asterion would be waiting for him in the courtyard every morning. And as they grew to know each other, the fear left him. They rode through the lands every day, him and Achilles. And he was suddenly glad there was no carriage, no window to look out of - instead, the wind in his hair, the sun and the clouds and the earth. All right there for the taking.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Shush!” he exclaimed, covering his head with a pillow. The beetle in his room continued to rattle and buzz. He had looked everywhere for it, kept the window wide open, but it stayed as it was. 

It looked like he would not get any sleep again. Sighing, he got up and found his clothes, going down the stairs to see if there was a place he could clear his head. 

The estate could be confusing, arranged in a rather nonsensical way. He could see the window of Thrasymedes’ study, but the lights were off. So down the pathway he went, passing by other rooms he did not recognize. He had been walking for a few minutes when he came across a circular pavilion with a glass roof. It was the newest building he had seen so far, brightly lit. 

He had only begun to approach it when he heard the music. It made him smile, because he would recognize that playing anywhere. It seemed Achilles had finally found himself a piano. 

He had never seen anyone so focused, he thought, leaning against the entryway and watching those elegant hands flying across the keys. How could anyone learn to play like that? It would take … a lifetime. But for Achilles … perhaps it was an exception. The man had a way of making the wildest things seem attainable. 

Months ago, who would have thought he would be traveling unfamiliar territory with such a person? The Patroclus in Troy would never have imagined it. The Patroclus in Troy would never have dared to converse with foreign nobles, or sing with local villagers, or ride a Laconian steed through miles of empty land. He thought of that Patroclus now, alone and closed off, scribbling letters to his far more adventurous friend. 

Now it seemed … he was the one who had gone on an adventure. He was the one who had entered the stories he’d read about as a child, had found common ground with strangers, had - met someone who insisted he could do things he’d once believed he couldn’t. 

The question came back to him. If he was Paris, then what happened to Patroclus? Yet it seemed; he did not have to be anyone else to find what he had so far. Paris was just a name. But it was Patroclus who had done those things, laughed with those people, who hoped and feared and dreamed. 

And it was Patroclus who stepped into the pavilion, hearing the music die down, seeing Achilles look up at him and smile.  
“Alright,” he said, going up to the piano. “Teach me.”  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Clymene and her family will be coming to stay,” Thrasymedes announced, referring to his bride. He looked anxious. 

“So we will see a wedding after all?” Achilles questioned. The dinner table was quiet that night, the other brothers having left to prepare for the hunting season. 

Now Patroclus could understand why Achilles had wanted him to ride by himself. Hunting was an important activity in Laconia. And he could hardly participate if he could not keep up. It was strange, he thought, sneaking a glance at the man. Being around someone who wanted him to be a part of things. He had never … he had always been told to keep out of everybody’s way, not to be a nuisance or a hindrance. He’d been told he would only slow the others down. For the first time, he started to believe that was not the case. 

“They have been notified of your presence, of course,” Thrasymedes explained. “It will be an honor to have Hellas’ esteemed leader at the ceremony.” 

Patroclus studied the man, trying to determine if he was being sincere. He had no doubt Thrasymedes did like Achilles, but whether or not he actually approved of a Hellas for the people … that remained to be discovered.  
\-----------------------

They practiced together at nighttime, the noises of tinkling keys filling the air. There were insects outside, chirping loud, almost rivaling the volume of the piano. 

“There’s one in my room that won’t shut up,” Patroclus pointed out, when they were taking a break. 

“I see. My lessons are nothing but an escape for you,” Achilles replied drily, but his eyes were alight with mirth. 

“Stop it,” Patroclus chuckled. 

“Can’t take criticism? No wonder your playing suffers.” 

“You’re insufferable.” 

Achilles grinned, and it occurred to Patroclus that he had forgotten what it was like to be wary of the man. It was like clockwork; they found each other in every free moment. He somehow always guessed where the other would be, and once they met, they would fall into step as though they had known each other all their lives. 

He could only laugh to himself, thinking of it. 

“What?” Achilles raised an eyebrow at him. 

“I was just thinking - I wondered once if we would have gotten along. If … we’d known each other in Troy.” 

Achilles looked down at the piano keys, seeming to consider.  
“You wouldn’t have wanted to know me,” he said, sounding serious, but Patroclus had stopped being afraid of having misspoken. 

“Why not?” 

One side of Achilles’ mouth lifted.  
“A boy from nowhere, with nothing to his name?” 

“You’re not from nowhere,” Patroclus replied, gently. 

“You would never have heard of it,” Achilles pointed out. 

“Perhaps not. But I could know it, if you wanted to tell me.”

Achilles eyed him carefully. Then he seemed to make up his mind.  
“When the revolution succeeded, I felt they were laughing behind my back. A leader who wished to unite the country, when he himself was from Phthia; a town so barren no region would claim it.” 

“Phthia,” Patroclus voiced.

Achilles looked hard at him. “Not something a Trojan prince is bound to learn about in geography classes, is it?”

“No,” Patroclus allowed. “But - give me a map of Troy, and I would probably read it backwards.” 

Achilles did not say anything, but his expression softened.  
“Aren’t you hard on yourself.” 

“I could say the same for you.” 

Achilles shook his head, a smile finally coming out. He took Patroclus’ hand and squeezed it. 

“If you were trying to distract me from practice, you’ve succeeded.” 

And the sounds of the keys resumed, chiming and tinkling into the night.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The bride’s family had arrived, and Patroclus could only try to keep out of the way as servants rushed about, carrying heaps of luggage, getting rooms settled for all the guests. It was a large party, and they had only been introduced very briefly. 

He’d already had trouble keeping track of all of Thrasymedes’ brothers - now he had the other side to remember as well. 

The rooms next to his were taken, and he could hear people arguing. In Elis, even with how Agapenor’s family was, the house had been very quiet at night. Here, these nobles never seemed to sleep. 

The kitchen staff were overworked, providing meal after meal, for every night seemed to be some banquet or celebration.  
\---

It was another one of those busy days and Patroclus could see the bride and her relatives throwing a luncheon in the courtyard. How quickly they acclimated themselves to the place, he observed. But then, that was what being an aristocrat was all about. Adjusting quickly.

He went looking for Achilles, dodging the scurrying servants. 

“Paris! Come to ride with us again?” called one of Thrasymedes’ brothers. 

He shook his head at him, waving politely, then noticed one of the aristocrats from the bride’s party watching him. When they met eyes, the man got up immediately and approached him.  
“Paris?” he asked, looking confused. 

“I -” 

“There you are!” Achilles was sauntering over to him, and in the confusion of riders taking off on their horses, servants running about, and the noise from the bride’s luncheon, he could only let Achilles lead him away. 

He forgot all about the incident until the next afternoon.  
\---

“Do join us, prince!” The bride waved him over.  
“Isn’t it thrilling, the height of the hunting season?” 

“I - er- yes. It’s very thrilling.” He struggled, rooting around for her name. “Lady Clymene.” 

She looked pleased that he had remembered. “You wouldn’t believe how excited we were when we heard Achilles would be in Laconia.”

“You were?” He wondered what she was getting at. 

“A perfect opportunity, you see -” Clymene beamed. 

“Glaucus!” And she beckoned over the man he had seen the day before. 

“You _must_ be introduced!” 

Patroclus frowned, studying the man, who looked rather embarrassed to be called out. He was young, not much older than Patroclus himself, dressed no different than the others in Clymene’s family. He … there was somewhere Patroclus had seen him before. He couldn’t stop the nagging feeling. 

Clymene was already running off, leaving them by themselves. “After all, you are countrymen!” she threw over her shoulder.

And it dawned on him. 

Glaucus was also frowning, studying Patroclus intently like he was wracking his brain.  
“Your highness?” And he paused. “Wait. No -”  
His eyes widened.  
“ _You_.”

Fuck, Patroclus thought.


	11. Chapter 11

A household full of staff and not a remedy in sight, Patroclus lamented. He had been nursing a headache for the better part of a day. All of a sudden, he wanted nothing more than to be in Olympia, or Elis, anywhere but here. Someplace where there was a kitchen he could sit in, surrounded by the smells of cooking food. 

Instead, he was forced to endure endless mealtimes with both sides of the Laconian aristocracy - sitting straight in his chair, taking part in polite conversation. All the while being more alert than ever on how he behaved.

“- what about you?” 

He started, realizing Achilles was talking to him. 

“Pardon me, Achilles. Could you repeat that?” 

Achilles tilted his head a little, noticing his inattentiveness. 

“We were discussing the plan for tomorrow. I proposed leaving at daybreak.” 

“Oh. That’s fine.” The conversation resumed around him. Across the way, Glaucus caught his eye. Patroclus shot him a look, but the other man only shrugged sheepishly. 

They had to wait until everyone had dispersed before finding each other in the corridor. 

“Now what?” Patroclus asked. “There is nowhere to talk in private!” 

“Come,” Glaucus said, leading him over to the stables. The building was empty, the smell of horse and hay pungent in the air. 

They stared at each other for a moment, mindful of their immediate surroundings and anyone who might happen to pass by. 

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Glaucus admitted. He shoved his hands in his pockets, hair hanging into his eyes. The same boy from all those years ago, hiding behind his much more exuberant father. Patroclus mentally smacked himself for not making an immediate connection. 

“What are you doing in Hellas?” Patroclus demanded.

“There was nowhere else to go. After my father -” Glaucus winced. His face was scrunched in worry. “I was so nervous, Patroclus.”

Gods. He hadn’t heard someone say his name in so long, and it was like plunging into cold water.

“When I heard that Paris was coming on a visit to court, you can’t imagine what I felt. I thought of coming to Olympia. I thought of finding you - him - and pleading for an audience. Then we came here for the wedding, and they said you were _here_. And I realized how foolish an idea it had been, and I started panicking, because I remember how Paris was, and can you imagine if I had _tried to talk to him_? But then I saw you and - it’s really you, Patroclus!” 

“Hold on,” Patroclus said, mind swirling. “You’re going too fast! You said you were going to come to _Olympia_?”  
_Fuck_. It had been so _close_.  
“Glaucus.” He tried to think. “I _searched_. I could not find _any_ trace of someone in Hellas who knew Paris. How is it that you’re even here?”

“It was before the revolution had even started,” Glaucus explained. “Do you remember, when there was the interrogation of Prince Hector’s supporters?”

“Of course I remember.” And he remembered Glaucus’ father, too. One of the most well-liked members of court. It had been a shock and a betrayal when they discovered he had been in league with Prince Hector the entire time. But his son …

“King Priam chose to spare me. But to do that, he had to send me into exile.” Glaucus suddenly looked alarmed. “You’re not going to say anything, are you? Please, I’m begging you, Patroclus!” 

Patroclus paused, looking Glaucus up and down.  
“ _What_?” 

Glaucus took a deep breath, and wiped his forehead where he had started to sweat.  
“They don’t know about me,” he replied. “I’ve been moving from one place to another for so long, and Laconia - I thought I’d finally found a place as close to home as I could get. Clymene and her parents - they’re really good to me. But if they found out what happened, they would cast me out. And then I really wouldn’t have anyplace to go.” 

Patroclus was trying hard to picture what the past years had been like. He tried to picture Glaucus, the few times he’d seen him as a boy in the palace. But they had never spoken, and he’d forgotten all about him after the execution of his father. 

“I thought -” Patroclus started. “I thought you were going to say something about _me_.”

Glaucus stared at him. “I …” he hesitated. “I have always hoped to go home, Patroclus. I realize that isn’t a real possibility. But - if you’re here on some mission for the king, I can’t get in the way of that.” 

Patroclus frowned at him. “What about Prince Hector? You really aren’t loyal to him?” 

Glaucus grimaced. “That was my father. And he suffered for it, didn’t he? I was never going to betray the king. Patroclus, I was eleven years old.”  
He looked up. “You can believe me or not. But look - if you won’t say anything about me, then I won’t say anything about you. Will that be good enough?” 

He didn’t know how much he could trust Glaucus. But what other choice did he have? 

“Just promise me you’ll stay away. You’ve said my name too many times already. How can I know you won’t slip up when someone else can hear us?” 

“You’re right,” Glaucus nodded, looking regretful. “But - will you at least tell me what it’s like? In Troy? If you can find some other chance to slip away?” 

“I’ll try,” Patroclus confirmed. “Please be careful, Glaucus.” 

And so there was nothing else but to rely on a practical stranger; a familiar face, once, but who knew what had changed in all the years that had gone by?  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was odd that the hunt began without the tolling of the bells. The team of horses was at the ready, in a quiet line by the woods. 

Patroclus shifted around in his hunting leathers, feeling more out of place than he’d been recently. His entire childhood, he had wondered what it was like. He’d spent so many seasons watching the king’s men, the princes, their steeds cantering off into the distance. He’d never thought to be a part of such an endeavor. 

“Looking sharp, Paris,” one of Thrasymedes’ brothers winked. 

He nervously inclined his head at him - he’d been given a hunting knife, suited for skinning small animals. That he could do. He just hoped he wouldn’t get in the way. 

“There’s that face again,” a voice in his ear made him jump. Achilles’ eyes were fixed on him. 

“I’ve never done this,” he explained. “Of course I’m nervous.” 

Achilles was about to say something, but there was a loud whistle and a few seconds later, the sounds of paws padding over the paved courtyard could be heard. 

Patroclus felt his heart race, that old excitement coming back. It was really - 

Achilles placed two fingers in his mouth and whistled; before he knew it, there were several of them bounding over, tails wagging. 

They ran up to Patroclus, sniffing at his boots. He reached down and held out his hand for them, laughing. These hunting dogs were not like the ones in Troy, those giant beasts covered in soft fur. These ones had long, sleek bodies, their graceful legs perfect for giving chase. Their fur felt as smooth as silk under his fingertips. 

“Easy,” he chuckled, petting the soft heads nosing at his shirt. 

Achilles watched him, the side of his mouth curled up in amusement. 

“I used to wait for them,” Patroclus told him. “At the fence. When my brothers returned from hunting, this was the end of the day I longed for.” In fact, it seemed like only yesterday when he’d crouched over Hector’s dog, clouded with child’s excitement - and the feeling had not changed.

Achilles did not reply, but there was a look on his face Patroclus had seen a few times. He couldn’t tell what it was, only that it made him forget his words for a moment. 

“Everybody at the ready!” one of the riders shouted. “Astride your horses!” 

And it was time to go. He watched as the dogs ran ahead of them, quick as hares, and he hauled himself onto Asterion’s saddle, following suit. 

“Beside you,” came Achilles’ reminder, as he had become used to hearing. They looked at each other and grinned, taking off on the chase.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It could take far longer than expected, Patroclus learned. In his head he had always pictured those princes leaping from their horses and shooting arrows like folk heroes. In reality …

“Are we there yet?” he asked, confused. 

“Shh.”

“But …”

“ _Shh_.” 

The others trekked slowly through the woods, keeping an eye out for anything that moved. They had gotten to a part of the forest where they had to dismount. 

“Let’s split up,” one of the others whispered. “We’ll catch up with the others on the northern edge, the rest of you see what you can find here.” 

They nodded, and before long, the group had scattered. Patroclus followed Achilles through the brush, not at all sure what they were looking for. 

He could hear the sound of a stream, and it reminded him a little of the house in Olympia. Then they came into a clearing, where the trees towered over them and the sunlight was green and yellow. 

He was about to step in when Achilles held him back, pushing them both down instead. He pointed at the clearing, where there were several wild rabbits leaving their burrows. 

“Oh,” Patroclus whispered, staring. 

Achilles handed him the crossbow. 

“ _What_? You want _me_ to -” 

Achilles placed a finger over his lips, a signal for quiet. He leaned over and demonstrated how the crossbow was handled, showing Patroclus where the trigger was released. 

Patroclus took it, tried to aim - and then the arrow shot out of his hands, flying through the air and against a tree trunk opposite. 

“Hey!” someone from the other group yelled, and the rabbits leaped away. 

“I’m sorry! I am _so, so sorry_!” Patroclus exclaimed, horrified at what had happened. He looked over to see Achilles covering his mouth, struggling not to laugh. 

“What are you doing? I could have hurt someone!” he insisted. 

Achilles shook his head. “They are trained for incidents like this. Come on. You might just have the first kill yet.” 

“I’m not sure I like the hunt,” Patroclus mumbled at himself, trailing after the other man.  
\-------------------------

When they found another rabbit, they crouched low on their bellies, aiming the crossbow properly this time. 

“Steady,” Achilles whispered, guiding his hand.  
“Do not release until you are absolutely certain.” 

His hand was shaking slightly, trying to hold the bow in place. This time, when he released, the arrow flew straight at its target, and pierced through. 

“I did it,” he said, looking at Achilles in wonder. 

“Are you surprised?” 

“I ...” He got up and went over to the spot. The poor rabbit lay dead. His initial excitement melted away immediately.  
“I killed it,” he said.

“First kill of the day,” Achilles reminded him. 

He sat on the ground, putting his head in his hands. “I killed a rabbit.” He felt _awful_. 

There was a silence. 

“We can … take it back for dinner.” 

“I can’t eat it,” Patroclus replied mournfully. But it would go to waste if they didn’t take it back, and then the kill would have been for nothing at all. He carefully picked up the rabbit and removed the arrow, wiping it clean. 

“I’m not doing this again. I’m not killing any more rabbits.” He handed it to Achilles, who hooked the rabbit up and tied it with string. The other man looked at him for a while, seeming like he didn’t quite know what to say.

Then he sighed. “Paris,” he said, a mixture of resignation, affection, and some other emotion Patroclus could not name. He put his arm around him, and they walked all the way back to their horses.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was the week of the wedding ceremony, one final feast before Thrasymedes and Clymene were married. The Laconians could really drink. 

Once the toasts had ended, Patroclus followed several groups of people who snuck out of the dining hall, probably wanting fresh air. 

“Care for some?” one couple spotted him, offering a long wooden pipe that was being passed around the group. He stared at it and shook his head. The smoke made him cough, and he waved it away, heading over to the alcove where he and Glaucus had agreed to meet.

“What is that?” he asked. 

“Opium. The latest trend among Hellene nobility.”

Patroclus knew all about trends. Ignore them long enough, and they tended to go away. Glaucus was sitting on the railing, knees bunched up to his chest. 

“I’m …” Patroclus started, realizing there was one thing he had neglected to say to the man.  
“I’m sorry about your father.”

Glaucus looked surprised. “Oh…”

Patroclus realized it must have been the first time he had heard someone say it. “So ... how do I sum up the past decade for you?” he thought out loud, wanting to lighten the mood. 

The other man’s expression brightened at the mention of Troy. “Well, I have a list … if you don’t mind.” He brought out a piece of paper, the names of old friends and acquaintances scribbled all over. 

Patroclus pursed his lips, an emotion he couldn’t describe filling his chest.  
“I -” He couldn’t imagine being someone who could hold on to such hope, all the while knowing those were people never to be seen again. “I won’t know all of them.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Glaucus assured him. “Whoever you can tell me about, if they are still alive, or ...” and he stopped there, for there was a possibility many of the people on the list were gone. 

Patroclus nodded, taking the piece of paper. There was something he’d been meaning to ask the man, from one Trojan to another.  
“Do you hate it here?”

“What? No!” Glaucus looked alarmed at the suggestion. “I chose to come here,” he explained. “I stayed in a boarding house outside the country that took in foreigners, at first. Then when I came of age, I couldn’t stay there any more. Hellas was just across the border. In a way, it was like a home away from home, that I had chosen for myself. So it wasn’t so bad.” 

“A home away from home,” Patroclus mused. He had rarely heard something so perfectly described in just a few words.  
“And you like living among the aristocracy?” 

“Oh, they are everything you think they are and more. But no better or worse than the ones back home. Some things are the same wherever you go,” Glaucus replied, and Patroclus remembered the songs the villagers in Elis had liked. 

They sat together, and he went down Glaucus’ list, batting away the opium smoke that wafted their way. He had spent so long with his mind on Hellas, that he hadn’t even thought of home until this abrupt reminder. And still, he did not find himself longing for it. It was like Glaucus had said - a home away from home, that he had not expected to find. It was rather ironic, he mused, glancing at the other man. Two compatriots with nothing in common, save for their connection to a place they had not come from.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He had been waiting in the pavilion for nearly an hour, and there was still no sign of Achilles. The other man was not one to forget plans - he sighed, pacing around, wondering if perhaps something had come up out of the blue. 

It was almost midnight, the stars fading out of sight, and he decided it was best if he just retired to his room. 

He was about to leave the pavilion when a pair of arms caught at him; it was so dark he couldn’t see. 

He could only let out a surprised yelp, then was embarrassed at himself when he heard Achilles’ laugh.

“Thought I’d forgotten, didn’t you?” 

“Not at all. But it’s too late for music lessons,” Patroclus replied, already yawning.

Achilles hummed, seeming to consider it. “You’re right. I suppose we should wait for tomorrow.” 

He suddenly wished he wasn’t so tired, because now that Achilles was here, he didn’t want to go to bed. They could talk all night and he would be happy.  
“... Tomorrow? That seems so far away.” 

Achilles shook his head at him fondly.  
“The woods then? Perhaps the fresh air will clear your head a little.” 

“I’m not going hunting again!” Patroclus protested, waking up immediately. But the other man had already taken his arm, and was leading him away, where the trees grew thickly against the edge of the estate.

\---

“Where are we going?” Patroclus asked, as they made their way carefully over an unfamiliar trail. 

“Patience. It’ll be worth it, I promise.” 

“Hmm.” 

They walked slowly and quietly, the trees getting taller and taller the further they went. He could barely see the moon now, it was almost pitch black. 

“Don’t you need a light?” he whispered, not wanting to interrupt the stillness around them. 

“Shh.” 

Achilles had stopped, leaning against a tree. He gently brushed away the leaves in front of them.  
“Stay very still.” 

“But I don’t see anything -” and he stopped, clamping his mouth shut, because there was the slightest movement in the corners. 

He could hear Achilles’ breathing next to him, feel his hand on the small of his back. And the dark outline of his profile, barely visible in the shadows. 

He didn’t know what they waited for, only that he would not break the silence. He was all too aware of his own beating heart. The scent of the earth and the cool air had faded into the background. Standing here, he thought - they could have been anywhere in the world and he would not have been able to speak. 

A few seconds passed, and he thought his chest would cave in; he had been holding his breath. 

Then the leaves rustled, and he could see what they had come here for. He had never been so close to one before. Seeing those white-spotted coats, the graceful movements of the deer. He couldn’t remember another time like this; a mere observer to the life that went on in the quieter moments. 

“The first night, I had my bow with me,” Achilles murmured, lips at his ear. His voice was so low it could have been the wind.  
“I brought it the next night. And the next.”

Patroclus looked down at the other man’s hands; empty. 

“Each time I was sure I would shoot. But then - I watched them walk, and the arrow never moved. I can’t explain why.” 

Patroclus thought he could. But Achilles was not like him, afraid to mar something so gentle and free. Achilles was the hunter, his bow always at the ready. And yet there were times in life where one could do nothing but stay still - for some moments were worth preserving far more than they were worth destroying. 

He could only look at Achilles, sensing for once that they must have been thinking the same thing. He could only feel the man’s gaze on him, and make out the whites of his eyes in the dim moonlight.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------

He wondered if the beetle would keep him awake again. He found he didn’t care. Their footsteps were stark against the stone stairs, and he could sense them all the way into the ground. The night had left him hyperaware of everything; the gooseflesh on his skin, the yellowness of the lights, the thin sliver of space between him and Achilles. 

“Early morning tomorrow.” He didn’t know what had become of him; it was as though he was afraid to speak too loud, in fear of breaking whatever spell had come over them. 

Achilles did not reply, only catching his eyes. 

“Do you know something?” Patroclus asked, when they were nearly at the corridor outside his room. 

“What is it?” Achilles turned to him.

“You said I had experienced Laconia. When we were out riding. And -” 

“Yes?” The other man was looking very serious, now. 

“Perhaps I have. But I think it is more than that. These places you have taken me to … there is no one thing that encompasses them. When I think of Laconia, I will think of what I felt the first time Asterion brought me through the plains. I will think of what I felt when I saw those deer, nearly an illusion in the dark of the woods. And I will think of -” 

“What will you think of?” Achilles asked, and reached out, hand coming up to cradle his jaw. His touch was gentle, the skin of his fingers rough from so many years of a love for music. 

Patroclus thought he would forget the words, just then, but he heard himself speaking them.  
“Like Olympia. Like Elis. The entirety of Hellas. Not any one thing, but a feeling only named through memory. Do you know it?” 

“I know it,” Achilles said, and moved so close their foreheads touched. He closed his eyes. 

They stood that way, and he could not breathe; he could feel the line of Achilles’ nose, feel the lashes brushing his own. There was a slow, sweet ache within him, like missing someone he had never known. 

It was Hellas, he thought. And it was Achilles. 

“I should go,” he mumbled, hating the sound of his own voice, the way it cut through between them. 

“No. Hold on a moment.”

And he did. And his hands were unsteady, tracing the line of Achilles’ neck, his ear, and his cheek. And the bottom part of his mouth, where the skin was chapped from daytime’s heat. 

He couldn't. He _couldn't_. 

“Tomorrow?” he asked, already regretting it. 

Achilles let him go, sighing. “Tomorrow.” 

Up the stairs he went, feeling the other man’s gaze on his back all the way.  
\---

In his room, he sat on his bed. Tonight, of all nights, the beetle was quiet. 

“What have you done, Patroclus?” he asked himself. 

He had no answer.


	12. Chapter 12

What a day for a wedding, Patroclus thought, hearing the drizzle pattering against the roof. They were gathered in the main building of the estate, awaiting the dark clouds to scatter. 

A few seconds later, there was the sun again. And in a few minutes’ time, it would be hiding. 

It was one of those odd rain-sun days, as if the sky couldn’t quite decide what it wanted to be.  
“I feel the same way,” Patroclus lamented, placing a hand on his chin. He had started to look for Achilles every morning, and then stopped himself. Then he had cursed, because nothing had _truly_ changed, and there was no point in making a big deal out of it. 

Yet he couldn’t shake that deep, unsettled sensation within him, like he was missing something. How could he be, when there wasn’t anything he had lost? How could someone lose something they’d never had? 

He paced along the hallway, trying not to let his gaze dart out every time somebody else passed by. It was like his eyes searched on their own accord, merely waiting for a glimpse of tall frame, a flash of blonde hair. It was like his heartbeat waited for the pull of a familiar presence, only to speed up once it was near. 

“What is wrong with you,” he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut so he wouldn’t look at the other guests. Achilles had not come searching for him today. Or the day before. Or the day before that, come to think of it. The man was probably preoccupied, he told himself. 

“It wasn’t like this, was it?” a voice beside him asked, and he turned to find Glaucus squinting up at the emerging sun. 

“What was?” 

“When …” Glaucus paused, as though unsure whether to bring it up. “When Prince Hector was married.”

It was so long ago now. The prince even had a son, whom Priam had never been able to see. Patroclus found himself thinking of the king, and his empty palace, separated from his own flesh and blood, the children of his children. 

It had been such a happy day, he remembered. The entire palace had gathered on the battlements, throwing flowers down on the newlywed couple. Hector had carried his bride all the way to their rooms, as was tradition, his strong arms holding her steady, footsteps never faltering. 

“It was perfect,” Patroclus heard himself say. He felt himself frowning. As a child at the time, the thought of marriage had never crossed his mind. But he remembered thinking of it then, and wanting it to be exactly like that. 

“I think we just remember it being perfect,” Glaucus replied, after a moment. “We think of the feasting and the laughter. But we don’t think of all the things behind closed doors, what might have been on Hector’s mind just then - what made him … leave.” 

There had never been an explanation. 

“It’s in the past.” Patroclus was not sure he wanted to have this conversation. 

“Don’t you ever think of him?”

“Prince Hector? No. I don’t.”  
But as a matter of fact, he _had_ thought of Hector, many times when the hunting season began and the absence of a prince and his gentle giant of a hound became more permanent. 

And then the other brothers had followed suit.  
Then the princesses had gone away.  
Then Polyxena. 

And the House of Priam was left as hushed and barren as the night Queen Hecuba had died. What was the point of having a family? he’d once thought. People always left. 

It had brought him a sort of twisted assurance, telling himself his parents had already gone, and he would never have to feel what the king had felt, sitting alone in his empty study. 

It was different now. _He_ thought differently now. But for the first time in a long time, he was reminded of that feeling again. Then he looked at Glaucus, and felt ashamed of himself. For who else could know better of that loss? 

“So … what will you do once the leader of Hellas asks you to marry him?” 

The question flew right over his head, and he didn’t even register it, at first. 

“... Wait, _what_?”

“Hmm?” Glaucus blinked back at him expectantly. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“What will you do once -”

“No, I heard you. But - why would - I mean, he’s not -”

Glaucus looked puzzled for a second, and then mortified. “Oh! I’m sorry. I thought that you were …” he trailed off. 

“That we were what?” 

“But I suppose it doesn’t make much sense, does it? Considering that you’re … you.” 

Patroclus nearly rolled his eyes. 

Glaucus hesitated. “I shouldn’t ask you about it, should I?” 

“I would rather you didn’t.” 

Patroclus had no idea what covert operations Glaucus assumed he was involved in, but he was not about to start explaining it now. They were barely more than strangers, after all. 

“I’m going to go away now.”

“I think that would be best.” 

Glaucus slinked off, and despite himself, Patroclus felt a smile making its way to his face. He looked up at the clouds, blocking the sunlight again.  
“Hide away,” he said. It wouldn’t stop the ceremony, it wouldn’t stop the music; and it would most certainly not stop him from enjoying himself.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hellenes really knew how to celebrate an event; if Patroclus hadn’t already learned this, he did now. 

There was a large tent set up in the middle of the woods, where the bride and groom had been keeping vigil since midnight. According to Laconian tradition, it was the first hardship a betrothed couple would endure together before the wedding - a night out in the wilderness, only each other and the mercy of nature. 

Patroclus had stayed up the night before, reading the books Chryseis had given him. He’d flipped through them all the way to the section on Laconia; in olden times, the bride and groom would have had to survive the harsh forest together for several days. There were even stories about betrothed couples riding out into the depths of the woods to fight wild animals. 

It seemed so demanding and primitive - yet he had thought it strangely romantic, two people entrusting themselves to one another for survival. Out of all the regions he had read about, the Laconians definitely had an interesting outlook on life. 

Now, of course, all Thrasymedes and Clymene had to do was sit in silence until someone came to get them for the ceremony.  
\---

They were going to run out of wine, at this rate. While awaiting the start of the wedding, the guests had nothing to do but entertain themselves. The main building was crowded, servants coming and going with platters of refreshments and pitchers of drink. 

Patroclus could only stand it for so long before the chatter became too overwhelming. Too many conversations, their voices carrying no matter where he stood. He’d been comfortable in Elis, the rowdiness around him always more joyful than anything else. But here, there were expectations. There were pretenses. He suddenly longed for that feeling of freedom, soaring across the fields on Asterion’s back.  
\---

He found himself meandering towards the stables when no one was looking. He couldn’t stop the tiniest surge of amusement - who would have thought he’d ever seek out riding on his own? Perhaps he was not so different from the folk heroes in his books, after all. 

“Asterion?” he whispered, glancing at each stall for any sign of the horse. For once, the stables were not empty, as Thrasymedes’ brothers were at the main building instead of out on the hunt.

He heard some shifting around, the sound of hay being chewed, and soft whickers. 

“There you are!” 

Asterion was in the very last stall, looking at him as though he’d been waiting. The white star on his head seemed even more conspicuous in the shade. 

“Here.” He’d brought a lump of sugar, holding out his hand and laughing a little as the bristles on the horse’s snout tickled his palm.  
“You want another? Here,” he murmured, getting out a second. His pocket was a little sticky from where the sugar had melted a little, but he didn’t mind. 

Someone cleared their throat behind him. He jumped, whirled around, and bumped straight into Achilles. “Oh!” 

The other man grabbed his shoulders to steady him, backing away a little so they were at arm’s length. There was a brief moment of silence as they looked at each other. 

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Achilles said, the side of his face already creased with mirth.

Patroclus was entirely conscious of the other man’s hands on either side of him - so much that he had frozen still.  
“I … Asterion was …” 

“What about Asterion?” Achilles pressed, glancing at the horse with a small smile. 

“We wanted to go out riding.” 

“We?” Achilles let go of him, and he found himself relaxing a little. 

“... I thought it might be nice.” He stared at the other man, scanning his face. They hadn’t really had a chance to speak together in the past few days. It was like they had become strangers again, like he had forgotten how to _be_ around Achilles in the short time they had been apart. 

“You thought so?” Achilles asked.

“I …”

Achilles had tilted his head to one side, absent-mindedly tucking a strand of hair behind Patroclus’ ear. 

The air rushed out of him. 

He glanced outside the stables, if only to look somewhere else. Dark clouds were forming again, the air turning cool and crisp.  
“It’s going to rain on us,” he muttered regretfully. 

“Doesn’t matter. We’ll wait for it to stop.” 

And they did.  
\---

Achilles was leaning against the wooden frame of the entryway, and Patroclus couldn’t help sneaking a glance at him. The other man’s strong profile, the curve where his neck met his shoulder. Patroclus’ thoughts drifted to how it had felt, under his fingers, and shook them away immediately. There was no use thinking of it now. 

“There it is again,” Achilles threw out, giving him a sideways glance. 

He started. “What?”  
But he knew what Achilles was talking about; the nervousness, always more plain on his face than he could control. He cursed himself for being so easy to read.  
“I just -” 

Those days, when Achilles had been so impatient, demanding that he speak. Now the man simply waited, eyes locked on him as though they would never break away. He took a deep breath. 

“I meant to find you,” he blurted out. He reached up and rubbed his forehead a little, where the condensation had collected.  
“I wasn’t - it’s been a busy few days, hasn’t it? And I -” 

Why was he struggling? _Why?_

“I didn’t want you to think that I didn’t want to see you. It was just …” he lapsed into silence. Gods damn it, his tongue was unwilling to cooperate today. 

“It’s alright,” Achilles said, after a moment.  
“I knew we would find each other eventually.” 

Seconds passed, where he did not break his gaze. Then - 

“Looks like the rain has stopped. Shall we?” 

And just like that, they fell back into rhythm.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mud had splattered against his boots, up his clothes. They had gone far ahead until he recognized the road that had brought them towards Laconia in the first place. 

Asterion’s coat was damp beneath him, and his clothes clung to his skin. Even so, it was exhilarating; he felt like the wind itself, sweeping over the land in a great rush. 

“Is there a song that can make you feel like this?” he yelled over at Achilles, who rode alongside. Right beside him, he thought, with a secret smile. 

“I can think of ten!” Achilles yelled back, throwing his head back in laughter; what a sound it was. There was always a new side to the man Patroclus had yet to see. 

Overhead, thunder clapped, and the first streak of lightning wove its way through the clouds. 

If they could keep going, and going. If they could journey side by side to the ends of the earth. But Patroclus could feel his hands pulling on the reins even so, steering Asterion back to the estate. Even when his heart was set on something else, his mind remembered.  
\---

“We should get changed,” he breathed, when they had returned to the stables. It was almost noon; Thrasymedes and Clymene would end their vigil soon. In a few hours it would be time for the wedding, and he would have an obligation to fulfill that he’d never done before. 

“Eager, aren’t we?” Achilles remarked, as they strolled back to the estate. 

“Clymene asked me to be her witness at the ceremony. I can’t go like this,” Patroclus replied, gesturing at his damp, mud-splattered clothes. 

Achilles was in similar disarray, but seemed not to care.  
“She asked you?” He paused. “Thrasymedes asked me to be his witness.” 

“Well…” Patroclus said. 

Achilles shrugged. “I suppose we’ll see each other at the altar, then.” 

“Until then.”  
\----------------------------------------------------------

By the time he was ready, the afternoon events were beginning. A large crowd had gathered in a circle outside the chapel where the ceremony would take place. 

“The vigil has ended!” one of Clymene’s relatives announced. The sky was somehow clearing out, making way for blue patches among all the grey. 

“Now it is time to kidnap the bride!” 

“... What?” Patroclus questioned, looking around him in confusion. 

“Old Laconian tradition,” Glaucus muttered at him, appearing out of nowhere. “They really go full-out at these weddings, you know?”

“What do they mean, kidnap the bride?” Patroclus asked, deciding that he could actually use some of the other man’s knowledge for once. 

“Back in the old days - we’re talking centuries ago - the groom had to fight for the bride’s honor in order to earn her hand in marriage. They would replace the bride with someone else, and he would have to find the real bride and win her back. All to prove he was worthy of marrying her, of course. Now, it’s a sort of joke, and they -”  
While Glaucus was explaining all this, Clymene’s relatives had started to approach them, each grinning in mischief. 

“Why, Glaucus,” one of them said. 

Glaucus looked up in alarm. “Wait, _no no no_ -” 

“We’ve found our replacement bride!” they yelled, and dragged him away, ignoring his protests. 

Patroclus was rather impressed by how quickly they found a dress and shoved it over Glaucus’ head. Only a few minutes later, the other man was decked out in full wedding attire, and there was a large commotion as they spotted Clymene on her way back. 

“Seize her!” the others screamed, and a group of them ran over and lifted her into the air, running off into the building. Glaucus was left standing in the middle of the circle, looking extremely uncomfortable. 

When Thrasymedes arrived, he walked up to the circle and took Glaucus’ hand, seemingly oblivious.  
“It is time, my love. Let us proceed.” 

“Ahem,” Glaucus replied. 

Thrasymedes stepped back.  
“What is this?!” He threw off the veil.  
“My bride has been replaced by an impostor!” he exclaimed, with a kind of enthusiastic outrage Patroclus would not have expected from such a reserved man. 

“Theatrical, isn’t he?” came a whisper, and Patroclus turned his head to see Achilles grinning at him. 

“... A true talent,” he agreed, stifling his laughter.

“Perhaps I should send in my letter of recommendation to the Olympia Opera House.” 

They stood together and watched the events unfold. 

“An impostor?!” everyone exclaimed, craning their heads to get a look at Glaucus. 

“An ugly girl, indeed!” 

“Hey!” Glaucus objected. 

Thrasymedes strode into the center.  
“I call upon the man who has stolen my beloved; a duel of honor, if you would accept my challenge!” 

Clymene’s older brother came forward. “I accept!”  
He carried two swords, and tossed one at Thrasymedes. 

“They’re going to do it _here_?” Patroclus questioned in disbelief.  
“Are those _real swords_?”  
He heard Achilles snort next to him. Hestia, these people were insane. Yet he could not deny that he was entertained.

The men started a mock duel to the death that, for the most part, looked rather realistic. They slashed and stabbed with their swords, dancing out of each other’s way just in time. It made for a stimulating show, especially when Thrasymedes cut past his opponent, getting ready for the final blow. 

“We’re supposed to take sides and cheer for them,” Achilles explained, his dry tone only making the situation seem more absurd. 

“Off you go, then. You’re on Thrasymedes’ side,” Patroclus replied. He couldn’t hide his grin as Achilles sauntered off, joining the people yelling out words of encouragement. 

“Prepare to die!” Thrasymedes bellowed, and drove his sword at his opponent, causing the man to keel over until he was face-down on the ground. He lifted his sword in the air in a victory salute, and the crowd erupted into cheers. 

A few minutes later, the real bride was recovered, and they walked hand in hand into the chapel, red-faced and laughing. 

“That was quite something,” Patroclus said, to no one in particular. He looked around for Glaucus, and found the man at the back of the crowd, struggling out of his wedding dress. 

“I hate being the ugly bride,” Glaucus moaned, wiping the paint off his face.  
\---

Hellene weddings were a blast, Patroclus decided.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In contrast to the liveliness from before, the chapel was quiet and intimate. 

Dozens of candlesticks lined the walls, creating a cozy atmosphere. Almost everyone had managed to cram themselves into the rows of seats. There was not a voice to be heard, the guests waiting solemnly as Thrasymedes and Clymene exchanged their vows.

Patroclus stood to the side, wearing his witness’ sash. It was rather beautiful, he thought, the bride and groom speaking in low tones to each other instead of projecting their voices to the guests. They made a handsome couple. 

He had always thought it a burden, to marry for duty the way the nobility did. But looking at the way Thrasymedes and Clymene had laughed together, hands clasped as they rushed to the altar … perhaps that wasn’t always the case. 

He caught Achilles’ eye on the other side of the aisle. Was there ever an end to the new things he encountered in this land? 

The odd, the wonderful, the bizarre. He hoped there wasn’t.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was nighttime, and he was beginning to feel his eyelids growing heavy. The celebration would go on well into morning, he had been told. He had gone outside for some fresh air, only to find clouds of opium awaiting him. So he had walked even further, all the way to the pavilion, where he could have some peace. 

The piano was left just the way it had been, the last time he and Achilles had been there. He sat and tried out a tune, pressing the keys slowly. He had already forgotten most of it, without any practice. Yet the sounds echoed in the space, each note going higher.

Music had lifted his spirits in the past. So why wasn’t it working now? 

He tried a few more notes, then stopped. There was a slight breeze through the trees. Just a few hours ago, there had been the most glorious sunset, ribbons of color going far longer than the eye could reach. Funny how it had been such a tempestuous day; blue sky one minute, thunder and lightning the next. 

And he felt it in himself.  
\----------------------

The smile was on his face when he heard Achilles’ footsteps, the weight within him suddenly eased. It dawned on him then - perhaps it hadn’t been the music he’d been wanting.  
His mind, thinking of keys and notes and melodies. His heart, hoping for something else. Were they doomed to be set against each other? he wondered, feeling that ache in his chest again when he could not get himself to settle down. 

The bench dipped beside him, the outline of Achilles’ form emerging in the corner of his eye. _Right beside you_. The words, leaping to mind. There was so much of the man he had learned in the past few months. So much to be committed to memory. He feared it would overflow, running through his fingers before he could begin to catch them. 

Was there a way to memorize a person? If there was one, what would he try first? He turned his head and looked. 

Was it that stare, how it felt on his skin? Was it that voice, warm and full of laughter at times, low and teasing at others? 

Too much, he lamented. He would lose it all and be left with a heavy heart. 

It must have shown plain on his face, for Achilles leaned over and smoothed the spot between his brows, where they had drawn together.  
“One more day,” he said. 

One more.

It was not enough, Patroclus mused. It had never been enough. Had he left some part of himself here? Or was it the other way around? 

“I never imagined it would be this way,” he murmured, finally finding the words.

“And what way is that?” 

“I imagined I would be counting the seconds until my time here was up. But the spring is almost over, and -” 

“It is only a season,” Achilles shrugged. “Hellas is not going anywhere.”

He bit his lip. “But _I_ am.” 

Achilles frowned.

“Wasn’t it what we agreed on?” Patroclus managed weakly. 

There was a silence, where Achilles seemed to weigh his next sentence. 

“You want to go home.” 

“I -” 

Every part of him was screaming, forcing the words right up. _Say it_ , he told himself. _While you have the courage_. 

Achilles was watching him, watching and waiting. 

“How could I? After everything? There is something I’ve found here that I never thought to see. You said you would show me Hellas. And you’ve shown me.”  
He sighed, closing his eyes.  
“I don’t want to go back to Troy.” 

“Then don’t,” Achilles said, and kissed him.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He thought he had imagined it. He reached a hand up to his mouth; the warmth was still there.  
“Oh,” he said. 

Achilles looked away.  
“That was abrupt. Perhaps I should have given you some warning.” 

“No, I -”

“I told myself I wouldn’t react that way, you know -” 

His hands moved before he could fathom it. He took Achilles’ chin and brought their mouths together again. 

This was wrong, a voice in him said, but the words became jumbled in his head; he kissed Achilles, kissed him and kissed him. 

His lungs were threatening to burst out of his chest, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe - and _gods_ , Achilles’ mouth felt good, the feeling of his lips and that warm wetness. His arms were tight around him, their bodies pressed together, yet still not close enough.

“Not a problem, then,” Achilles panted, when they broke apart for air. 

He shook his head, and pulled the other man against him again, because he never wanted it to stop, didn’t even care to catch his breath.

There was a sound he was making, that he hadn’t even realized. He tried to think, but his mind came out blank. 

Achilles had cupped both hands around his face, and was gently holding him back. His chest was heaving, his skin burning where the other man’s eyes roamed over him.

“Where should we go?” Achilles asked, voice hoarse.

He hadn’t noticed how hard he was clinging to him, fingers tangled in his hair, in his clothes. “I don’t care.” Just as long as it didn’t stop. It couldn’t.  
\---

The climb up the stairs had never been longer. His knees trembled, and he had to lean on Achilles for support, one hand fumbling for the door. 

And then he was up against the wall, and those lips were on his neck, moving over his jaw, down one collarbone. 

This was happening, he realized, eyes widening a little. It was happening and ... he wanted it to. 

Fuck, why had they waited this long? 

His hands traveled over Achilles’ back, over the blades of his shoulders, winding around his neck. If the other man’s body hadn’t been pinning him to the wall, he was sure he would have collapsed. 

There were a few moments where he had to squeeze his eyes shut, to shake off the haze that had come over his mind. He drew in a deep breath, his grip on Achilles loosening a little. He leaned his face against Achilles’ palm. 

And froze, the slide of cold metal against the bare skin of his throat. 

Achilles’ face was a hair’s breadth away from his. Legs between his, holding him firmly in place. And that hand, gripping the point of the knife against where his pulse had started to quicken. 

They were very, very still. 

“Who are you?” Achilles asked, voice low and calm. 

He thought the blood had stopped flowing within him. He could not even tremble, his body had turned to stone.

The room had gone cold, so cold, nothing but shallow breaths between them. 

“Are you going to kill me?” he asked, when his lips were finally able to move. 

“That depends. Are you going to cooperate?” 

The knife was so sharp he didn’t even feel its sting. Only the smell of iron, a single drop of blood trickling down towards his collar. 

He didn’t dare watch it fall. For he could see in his mind - everything they had gone through so far - all coming apart.


	13. Chapter 13

He could see half of Achilles’ face in the lights from the window. His eyes, wide and dark, looking back at him. It reminded him of their time in the forest. 

The watchful gaze of the hunter - bow poised at the ready. 

He had been foolish, foolish indeed to forget. Who Achilles was. Who had shaken the earth to its core, had uprooted a royal house, had taken lives for his cause. 

In their time together, he had forgotten. He had seen where the man came from, only to lose sight of who he had become.   
\---

He closed his eyes and took a breath. Every inhale, causing his chest to rise, skin meeting the tip of the blade.

The balls of his feet were aching, they had been standing there for so long. 

He could hear voices outside and it made him clench his fists. Just a wall away. And even then, there was no one who could help him. He had come here knowing the dangers. He had come here, knowing to be careful. When had that gone away? 

He looked at Achilles. Looked at the crease of his mouth, which he had seen upturned in laughter. At the green of his irises, which he had seen lit up in amusement. He could wish, he could will them to come back. In that moment, he almost did. 

“Well?” Achilles asked. He waited patiently, and his weight on Patroclus did not lessen. 

Patroclus’ mouth had gone so dry, he thought he would choke on the words as they came out. Achilles could have waited for him forever, he thought. He didn’t know how much time had passed, only the hollowness in him.

A husk, he was. Everything he had hoped for, so far away now. 

“It was a mistake,” he said, only to realize he had mouthed the words. Was his voice failing him?

“A mistake?” Achilles replied anyway, sounding genuinely curious. His voice had no edge to it, smooth and flowing, the sound of someone reading a bedtime story. 

It was so much like their usual conversations that it made his eyes sting. One second - one. And the world had shifted on its axis.

“Yes,” he said, and it came out this time. “A mistake.” 

“Hmm.” Achilles shifted his arm. It must have been painful, holding this position for so long, yet he showed no signs of it. 

He was waiting again. And Patroclus thought - if he was going to get out of this at all - he would have to make the other man see.

“You asked for a painting,” he started, trying it out. His voice was a little stronger now - his heart still raced so fast he thought it would burst in his chest - but the breathing was helping him. 

“I did,” Achilles agreed. “I extended an invitation to Paris of Troy. And you - you are most certainly not Paris of Troy. Is that correct?”

Patroclus nodded.

“Then we are in agreement.” Achilles smiled slightly. “That is always a good sign.” 

“What do you want?” Patroclus blurted out. He didn’t know what made him ask it - only that perhaps it would give him a clue - some way he could rectify this, some way he could get at what went on in the other man’s head. 

“Strange. Isn’t that supposed to be _my_ question?” Achilles asked, tilting his head to one side. 

“It _was_ a mistake!” Patroclus insisted, louder this time. Then he clamped his mouth shut, because what if someone heard them?   
“You wanted the painting, and we - we sent it to you, but it was wrong. It was meant to cause an insult. I tried to stop him. I did.”   
Once he started, he found he was not able to stop. He couldn’t ease the panic that had overtaken him, at saying the wrong things, at not being believed, at - at failing what he had been tasked to do. 

“Now -” Achilles voiced, a signal for quiet. He reached over suddenly. 

Patroclus stiffened at the touch - then looked down and saw Achilles had caught at the droplet of blood trailing down his collarbone, gently wiping it away with one knuckle. He let out a breath. 

“Help me understand. You were sent here for a purpose, were you not?”

Patroclus hesitated, then nodded.

“You see? There is no reason why we cannot discuss this honestly.”   
Achilles paused, seeming to weigh his next words. And that was when Patroclus knew - if he was ever going to get through to the man, he had to meet him halfway. 

“Please put the knife away. You can kill me later.” 

Achilles seemed surprised, but a pleased look made its way to his face. A second later, the blade was gone, and it was simply him and Patroclus, so close their noses were almost touching. 

“I ask you again,” Patroclus said. “What do you want?”   
_Where_ was he getting this courage from? Hestia help him - it could not leave him now, for he was in desperate need of it. 

Achilles’ gaze shifted from one side of his face to another - as though determining whether it was worth asking.   
“What were you sent here for?” 

“To secure the alliance with Hellas.” 

Achilles shook his head, almost in disappointment.   
“We were getting somewhere. And now you insult me with this?” 

“It is the truth.” 

“Then why you, and not the prince?”

Patroclus frowned. What was he supposed to say? It had to look extremely suspicious from Achilles’ end, hearing that it had been a simple case of trickery - even if it _had_ been. But he had started with the truth, and it was all he knew to guide him.  
“He refused.”

“Refused?”

“He did.” 

Achilles considered this, pursing his lips.   
“Yet the painting was sent. And a letter, telling me that the Prince of Troy had accepted my invitation. You’re telling me this was not done with motive?”

“Only to prevent you from retaliating!” Patroclus exclaimed, suddenly frustrated. 

“You thought an impostor sent in his place would have erased the deception?”

“We had no _choice_. We didn’t know how you would react if you knew it had been a trick. We hadn’t expected you to ...” _To like the painting_.   
A thought occurred to him then.   
“There was no way to tell I wasn’t him. I very well _could_ be him, and how would you know the difference?”

This made Achilles raise his eyebrows. “Couldn’t I?”

Slowly, he moved his hand, dipping it under Patroclus’ shirt. It made him tense up, but the touch was light. 

A second later, Achilles lifted the chain with the silver ring; it gleamed in the sparse light. 

“Tell me - what would a youngest son be doing with the symbol of the protector?” 

He frowned. When had Achilles even seen it?  
“What of it?”

“You expect me to believe Priam would hand this to a son who was not his successor? The precious coronation ring, a symbol of his power? No - it had to be another reason. Another purpose. One that could not be made to fail.” 

“... That was how you figured it out?” He could hardly believe it. He had been more careless than he’d thought, and he was so close to ruining everything, if he hadn’t already. 

Achilles did not reply, only gave a dissatisfied grunt, and he knew he was missing something. It started to tickle in the back of his head then, that there must have been something else. Some _one_ , perhaps. The thought made him dig his fingernails into his sides, angry at himself. 

“How did you even -” he managed weakly. 

“Know what it is?” Achilles chuckled.   
“You think me an ignorant foreigner, unaware of the heritage I was going to associate myself with?” 

Patroclus shook his head; Achilles was anything but ignorant.

“These symbols, only for royalty. But you see, I pried one just like it off the Atreidae’s hands. I thought it was in bad taste - how they wore it, when they had done nothing to protect the country I love.”   
He dropped the ring.   
“And what does Priam believe will protect his kingdom? Who is he in league with?”

Patroclus had fallen silent as Achilles spoke. But this question threw him off-balance.  
“Who is he - _what_?”

“He sent in a spy, armed with nothing but his trust. There must be something he intended you to do.”

“I am _not_ a spy.” He could see Achilles did not believe him, but the other man did not stop him from continuing. 

“He gave me his ring - because he needed my help! We feared you were going to attack us if you did not get what you wanted. After all …” he swallowed.   
“We supported the House of Atreus before the revolution. You were an unknown who hated the monarchy. How could we know what you would do?” 

There was a silence, as Achilles processed his words. This was going nowhere. He could talk as much as he wanted, he could scream the truth for the other man to hear - but there was no changing someone’s mind when they refused to be convinced. 

He had to try a different approach. His king was depending on him.

“What does it matter?” he asked, when the quiet had dragged on for too long. 

He felt Achilles move a little, as though the man hadn’t expected it.

“What does it matter who I am? You asked for Paris - and _you got him_.” 

Achilles had gone still, mouth turning downwards. He had to tread very carefully now. 

“And what -” the other man said, starting very slowly.   
“What makes you think this _Paris_ is not one whose head I will send back to his father?” 

Patroclus shuddered a little, and he knew Achilles could feel it. But he was not going to show it on his face. By the gods, he was not. There was only one thing he could say, one thing that could either turn his fate or seal it. 

Were prayers enough? Perhaps he only had himself to rely on.

“ _Because you need me_.” 

He saw the way Achilles’ brows drew together. He had his attention.   
He squared his shoulders, and took a deep breath.

“What is the aristocracy going to think when they learn the _great Achilles_ has invited an impostor into his home? When they learn you fell for a joke?”

Achilles was staring at him intently, and he willed his breathing to remain steady. 

“You will look like a fool, no matter where this goes. They already can’t stand you, but _this_? You will never gain their respect.” 

The other man’s mouth curled in a cynical expression - but he was listening. 

“Look at how it went with Thrasymedes. This entire time in Laconia, and you have gained his friendship. Yet you have _still_ not gotten what you want, have you? He hasn’t surrendered his land to the people. And he won’t. It takes more than a few weeks, a few months. They expect a leader who is secure in his position. And once they find out what happened … you’ll lose all of that.” 

He expected a word of protest, some sign that Achilles would speak - but the man only watched him, the back and forth of thoughts clear in his eyes. 

“I don’t expect you to believe me right away. But I will say this - I only mean to serve my king. To protect Troy from landing in ruin. And I have failed. But if you are truly the visionary that I thought you were, then you will be able to see.”

“And what is it you think I should see?” Achilles questioned, tone considering.

“You chose to embrace the old ways for a reason. Do you not think we would benefit from a Hellas that thrives, rather than a Hellas plunged into chaos? You only have to give me a chance. And if I fail again, my life is yours to take.”

Achilles leaned his head back a little and laughed.   
“A chance? You want a chance to play him. Is the world a stage for us now?”

“You asked for Paris of Troy. I _am_ Paris of Troy, to your people, to the nobles whose cooperation you will need to unite this country.”

Achilles had gone very serious, lowering his eyes to the floor. He was actually contemplating it.   
“It is a risk,” he said, very softly. 

“I cannot make you trust me,” Patroclus reasoned. “But something tells me anyway that words would do no good. You are a man of action. Give me time - we have worked well together, and nothing will stop us from doing it again.” 

Achilles looked at him, really looked at him.  
“Now I really have to know who you are.” 

Patroclus closed his eyes. If there was something he had taken away from all this … he was making dealings with a dangerous man.   
A dangerous man, whom he had - he had really thought that … _it didn’t matter_. There was a part of himself he needed to protect, if he was going to survive this.   
“I was nobody,” he mumbled, eyes on the floor.

Achilles pressed his lips together, but didn’t comment.   
“I will think it over. And tell you, tomorrow.” 

Patroclus nodded. 

Achilles finally moved away, and he was not prepared for the rush of air over him. Pressed up together like that, it had been so … intimate. Like confiding in a lover, rather than making a deal with a man who would have killed him otherwise. 

“Make no mistake,” Achilles said, as he made to leave. “If I decide you are _not_ Paris, your king will be made to regret it.” 

He could only watch in silence as the door opened and closed, Achilles leaving as suddenly as he had entered his life. 

He waited for the footsteps to fade away before sinking onto the floor. And then the trembling began.   
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After the wedding, the activity had started to die down. Most of Clymene’s relatives had already left, content that she had married well, would now be mistress of a great and wealthy house. 

Patroclus strolled around the grounds, keeping his eye out. He was careful to avoid the main building and Thrasymedes’ study. He didn’t think he could bear running into Achilles now. The whole night, it had been - him coming to terms with what had happened. And out here, where everything seemed so normal … he just couldn’t. 

“I’m going to miss you!” he heard Clymene’s voice, and rounded the corner to see her embracing Glaucus. A part inside him clenched up like a stone fist. He wasn’t ready. 

“Do come visit as much as you want! I will be looking out for you!” 

He saw Glaucus wiping his eyes a little, and it only made him grimace. A friendly demeanor, a few benevolent words. It had been enough to take him off his guard, and he was paying the price for it now. 

He waited for Clymene and Glaucus to part. Still teary-eyed, Glaucus ambled along in his direction. And gave a yelp, for Patroclus grabbed his arm and pulled him over into an alcove, gripping hard so he wouldn’t have a chance to run away. 

“What -”

“You told him,” Patroclus whispered, barely able to keep the agitation out of his voice. _Why_ hadn’t he kept a closer eye on the man? He was an exile, with no loyalty to the king. It should have been clear from the start.

“I - what - _who_?!” Glaucus exclaimed, eyes swiveling back and forth in confusion. 

“ _Achilles_ ,” Patroclus gritted out. 

Glaucus’ eyes widened. “I didn’t! I swear I didn’t!” 

“Don’t lie to me!”

“I’m _not_ lying!” Glaucus pulled his arm away, this time looking upset.   
“Gods, Patroclus -”

“Don’t you say that name!” Patroclus snapped. “Don’t you _ever_ say that name!”   
The frustration had been pooling in him this long, and it came bubbling up, far stronger than he’d expected. He forced himself to calm down.   
“What did you tell him? I need to know.”

The other man stared back at him indignantly. “Nothing! I have never spoken to him!”   
He started to look worried, then. “What’s going to happen now, if he knows?”

Patroclus shook Glaucus’ arm. “What do you think? He threatened to kill me!”

“I swear I didn’t say anything.” Glaucus suddenly straightened, frowning a little in thought.   
“If you don’t believe me, then we’ll go to him right now!” 

“What?” Patroclus asked, incredulous. 

“I’ll turn myself in to him as your proxy. Then we’ll go back to Olympia, and if he isn’t satisfied, he can keep me as a political prisoner. And you’ll be able to return to Troy and ask for the king’s help.”   
Glaucus took Patroclus’ hand and led him away, face determined. 

“Wait, Glaucus -” Patroclus objected, holding still.   
“You _can’t_ do that. It won’t work.” 

Glaucus sighed. “What can I do to prove that I’m not your enemy, Patro -” he stopped himself.   
“What can I? You told me news of the people I cared about in Troy when you could have ignored me instead. I have to repay you some way.”

Patroclus hesitated. “I made a deal with him.” 

“A deal?” Glaucus glanced around them, then steered them back into the alcove. “Look, how much does he know?” 

“Only that I’m not Paris. I don’t know if he’ll believe anything else I said. But I told him … he had no choice.” 

Glaucus looked shocked. “You... _threatened_ the leader of Hellas?” 

“No! It wasn’t like that. If he accepts … then I’ll have more time to show him I was telling the truth. If he doesn’t …”   
Patroclus pressed his lips together. “Troy might very well be in danger.”   
He placed his head in his hands. “I’ve ruined everything, Glaucus. I was so _stupid_.”

Glaucus didn’t reply, only scrunched his face up as he tried to think.   
“That’s why I have to come along, Patro - _sorry_. I might be an exile, but I’m still Trojan. If he does accept your deal, he’s going to be keeping an eye on the advantages and disadvantages you can bring him. If he decides you’re no longer useful … it would be very bad. But if he has _two_ of Troy’s citizens, one an appointee of the king, and another with noble blood - he knows he holds the stakes.” 

Glaucus nodded, expression smoothening in resolution.   
“The first lesson I learned about Hellenes. _Always_ let them believe they have the upper hand.” 

Patroclus sighed, reaching up a hand to clap Glaucus on the shoulder. Perhaps the man was telling the truth, after all. But how had Achilles put two and two together? The not knowing was the worst. 

“I can’t ask you to do this, Glaucus.” 

Glaucus looked back at him. “My heart never left Troy. You have to know that.” 

Patroclus nodded, unable to mask his trepidation for the day ahead.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He had been waiting in his room, hands clasped tightly together. Someone knocked at his door, making him jump. Then he cursed, because he needed to stay calm. Giving in to his fears would not change anything. 

His bags had been packed, moved into the cart. All that was left was to go downstairs and … face what he had been given. 

His entire body felt like a fever had taken place. His hands were clammy, his forehead covered in sweat, yet he felt cold. His feet fell against the grass heavily when he walked. He did not even hear Thrasymedes bid him goodbye, could only manage a weak smile in the man’s direction. 

The carriage was waiting in the driveway. 

_Goodbye, Asterion_ , he thought, letting the image of the horse in his stable soothe him for a moment. And then Achilles strode over, and he could only stand rooted to the ground, waiting. 

The other man glanced at him briefly and gave a short nod. 

All at once, the breath he had been holding was released, and they climbed into the carriage together. He looked uncertainly at Achilles - who was gazing out the window in silence, mouth set in a straight line. And he felt his heart sinking, and sinking, all the way to his feet. 

Everything he had hoped for. Far behind him, now. 

And so began their journey back to Olympia, where it had all started, where the truth would determine how it would all end.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Later on in the night, there was a commotion in the carts that carried their supplies. 

He peered out the window as Achilles went to inspect it, feeling dread making its way to his stomach. 

“Oh, Glaucus,” he sighed, when the man was discovered. 

Glaucus had snuck in with their luggage, intent on following him. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Achilles asked, as his men held Glaucus by the collar. 

“I surrender myself!” Glaucus yelled, eyes roving wildly.   
“A proxy, on behalf of Troy!” 

Achilles met Patroclus’ eyes for the first time that night, frowning a little. He knew what it meant.   
“Just take him away,” he muttered at last, pinching the bridge of his nose. The men stuffed Glaucus into the carriage behind them. 

Perhaps he had gained something from Laconia after all.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They arrived in Olympia at the stroke of twilight. No more stars, he lamented, gazing up at the sky so tempered by the city lights. 

He and Achilles did not look at each other as they disembarked. A part of him wanted to reach out to the other man - his hand twitched, almost betraying him. But he waited too long, and Achilles was gone, barking orders to his men to lock Glaucus up in one of the other houses. 

Patroclus had nothing left to do but retire to his own living quarters. He stood there in the driveway for a moment, the carriages pulling away behind him, all sounds fading off into the night’s silence. 

Then the door was open, light filtering through. 

“Paris!” Chryseis, running out to meet him. 

The sight of such a friendly face made his eyes prickle. He bit his lip to hold it back. 

She took his arm, her hands soft and warm.   
“Well? Coming in?”

He mustered a smile.   
\---

It was afterwards in his room, when he had gotten ready for bed, that she knocked on his door and came in with his extra blankets and things. 

He had to look away to keep himself from remembering the nights at Elis, when it had been Achilles who had done that. 

_“Alright?”_

_“Alright.”_

“You still haven’t told me how it went,” Chryseis pointed out, coming up to him and placing a glass of warm milk and a plate of fruit on the table.   
“Was it everything you read about?” 

“It was -” 

It had been everything, and more. 

For so long, he had known to keep himself from showing weakness. Paris’ sharp gaze on him, at all times. 

Now it was a concerned face that stared back at him, so gentle, and kind, and -

He felt Chryseis place an arm around him, and the comfort was too much. 

“It was beautiful,” he said. “Hellas is beautiful.” 

And he burst into tears.

“I’m sorry.” He wiped his face. 

There was a silence, while he cursed himself for losing control.

“Oh, sweetheart. Here.” Chryseis handed him a flannel. She didn’t ask him to explain, only waited until he had collected himself. He didn’t dare look at her, knowing it would only send him into another fit of tears. 

“Try to sleep, alright? All this traveling. Hmm. It does take a toll.” Chryseis put out the lights, leaving a candle by his bedside.   
She closed the door very quietly. 

And he was alone again.


	14. Chapter 14

It was that windy part of springtime, where the air had just turned hot enough to make way for summer. He kept the window open, watching the lights from across the river dancing over the water. They leaped and flickered, reminding him of music notes and soaring melodies. 

He’d snuck out once, in the early hours of the morning. Crept into the main house, using the wall as his guide - he’d wanted to play. Wanted to feel the smooth surface of the keys under his fingertips, taking him somewhere else. And he’d stopped, breath catching in his chest as he hid along the shadows. 

For the room was not empty, the piano bench occupied.

He’d stood there and waited, imagining those hands running across the keys. The notes were slow, and haunting, and he kept waiting for them to pick up. Only they never did. Achilles played like a part of himself was weighed down by the music, each note trailing off as he dragged them across. 

He heard the scrape of the bench, heard the man sigh. Those instances of quiet in between songs - he thought they spoke louder than the melody knew to do. He leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes; he could almost taste the fresh air of the countryside, almost see the brilliance of the constellations - and he savored them, lest they become distant memories in the days to come. 

They said that music could feed the soul. And perhaps - the both of them had come here, seeking some assurance, some rest from the uncertainty and the loss and the secrets that now marked their time together. 

What was it he was looking for? Some proof that the man he had known was there, before the sun rose; that there were hours when they were allowed to grieve what they’d had - for wasn’t it like death, the passing of a treasured time, the losing of a treasured person? 

The passing and the losing. And here in the dark, a wall shielding him from sight, he could allow himself to acknowledge it. He could allow each chime of the piano to pull at his heart, for when the day began, he had to pick up the pieces and go on.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was too sunny a day to be melancholy, he thought. He sat back in his chair and basked in the warmth over his eyes. There was a bluejay outside, flittering over the bushes, and he so desperately wanted to smile. 

He tried it out, felt the corners of his mouth stretch. Only to feel them drop again. 

He could hear Achilles across from him, spreading jam over his toast. He could smell the jam; strawberry. 

He opened his mouth but no sound came out. He turned his head towards Achilles, but his eyes would not cooperate. 

Day after day after day, it had been like this. 

“Pass the honey.” 

He obliged, not looking Achilles’ way at all. The heat from the man’s fingertips brushed against his own, but their skin did not touch. 

More scraping, the sound of clinking as Achilles spooned honey into his tea. The swirl of liquid, as it was stirred. A warm and cozy breakfast table, the door open to let the scent of flowers in. 

And two people, silent as stone. There was a pain in his chest, the kind he got when he’d gulped down medicine too quickly. It left a soreness right in the middle, and no matter how he rubbed at it, it would not go away. 

He’d had no appetite for the past few mornings. He sat at breakfast, and listened to Achilles eat. Listened to the rustling of papers, as the other man read. All the while waiting for this torture to be over. 

“You can go,” Achilles murmured, when he was done. Words thrown carelessly about, as though he’d barely noticed the time passing. 

And Patroclus would stand, the sound of the chair against the floor making him wince, and hurry out the door without looking back.   
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He spent his afternoons helping Chryseis in the gardens. He plucked weeds, and moved flowers to new pots, and picked the hawthorn berries that grew on the bushes. When he was finished, he begged her for new things to do. 

“Paris,” she’d sighed. Then she’d laughed at him. “Sooner or later I’m going to have to start paying you!” 

It was this afternoon that he did his work. The feeling of the earth and the smell of garden herbs made him feel better, cut through the dreariness a little. If he could busy his hands, then he could busy his mind. 

He had been worrying nonstop, ever since it was announced that the aristocracy in Olympia were planning a welcome ball in honor of their safe return. The thought of sitting through that again - judgmental stares, and expectations of what he would be - 

But he had promised he would. He had told Achilles he could do it, and there was no going back. 

Passing through the gardens, he looked up at the house across from his own. He scanned the windows, until he reached the one on the second floor. He paused in his steps, seeing a face staring out at him. 

Glaucus waved at him forlornly from the room he was kept in. He waved back. 

He wished the other man had not come. It only made him feel worse, knowing he had unwittingly roped the man in, had involved him in something that could endanger both of their lives. 

He’d asked Chryseis to make sure the man was comfortable, had everything he needed. Right now, Glaucus was treated as a guest more than a prisoner. 

But the tides could turn quickly, as he had learned.   
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“What about this?” Chryseis asked, holding up two samples of cloth. They were in the middle of tailoring his garments for the ball, and it was a tedious process. He had already been poked and prodded with pins the whole day, and now there were buttons and cuffs and lacings to choose from. 

“I don’t know, Chryseis,” he sighed. “Just pick anything.” 

“You’re going to have to choose _something_.” She waved the tailor over for more options. 

“It’s only one night. We don’t have to give an arm and a leg just for a few hours of fussy socializing.” 

“You’re starting to sound like Achilles,” Chryseis teased him, but the sound of the man’s name only made him tense up.

“This?” Chryseis suggested, holding up a combination of fabrics, and he shrugged.

Chryseis shot an apologetic look at the tailor for wasting his time.   
\--------------------------------------------------------

“I -” He felt bad, seeing her gather up the fabrics and pack them away, sighing. He was only making things harder. 

“Chryseis. I promise I’ll decide on the clothes soon.” 

“It’s not the clothes that bother you, sweetheart,” she said, throwing him an astute glance over her shoulder.   
“Now just how long are you going to allow yourself to feel this way? I’m still waiting to hear stories of the countryside, but something tells me it’s best left alone.” 

She was right, he grimaced. How long was he going to allow this to go on?

“But I can’t … talk to him,” he muttered, already feeling embarrassed at how pathetic he sounded. 

“Is he a wild animal?” Chryseis questioned. “A lion who’s going to bite your head off as soon as you approach him?” 

She chuckled a little, seeing his face. 

How she kept her good humor, he would never know. _He_ would have been tired of dealing with _himself_ after so many days. 

“I wish you’d been there,” he said, and the heaviness eased a little when he saw how pleased she was to hear it.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Right, he told himself. 

No more stalling. He had to make sure they were on the same page, if they were going to get through this ball. 

He stood outside Achilles’ study, staring at the wooden frame of the door. He kept curling and uncurling his toes, as though summoning courage from the polished stone of the floor. 

He raised a hand, watching his fist come in contact with the door. Then spread his fingers wide, palm against the wood, exhaling. Just a few words. They could be civil, couldn’t they? 

He had just about readied himself to knock on the door when it swung wide open, and he jumped back, not wanting to collide with Achilles in the doorway. 

He felt his heartbeat quicken again, and willed it not to show on his face. They stood there staring at each other. 

Then Achilles moved back a little, giving him space to enter the room.

“If you’re wanting to discuss the ball, there is nothing to discuss. A few hours of dancing and a few hours of enduring the hell that is high society. I plan on smiling and nodding my head and singing praises of the countryside. I suggest you do the same.”   
Achilles sat back down at his desk, twirling a pen in his hand absent-mindedly. 

Patroclus almost smiled, then. The man’s grudging tolerance of the aristocracy in Olympia. It was something that had grown on him, all the months they had gotten used to each other. But he clamped his mouth shut, because there was something lacking even so. 

That familiarity, that sense of having someone _right beside him_. It was gone. 

He nodded, shuffled his feet and turned to go. Then stopped himself, because this couldn’t be all. 

Hadn’t he promised he would tell the truth? Hadn’t he sworn he would use this chance to show the man he wasn’t a threat? 

They would get nowhere if they couldn’t speak openly anymore. He turned back around, and stood in front of Achilles’ desk. The other man eyed him warily, as though unsure what to expect. 

“I won’t fail you,” Patroclus said, hating himself when his voice wavered. 

Achilles looked at him for a minute, then huffed.   
“That remains to be seen.”

“I won’t. You know I won’t.” 

“I don’t know anything about you.” 

The statement, said so pragmatically, was like a blow in his side. 

“That’s not true,” he replied. 

He willed Achilles to meet his eyes, but the man only grimaced, looking down at his papers with a dark expression. 

“That’s _not_ true,” Patroclus said again. 

There were a few moments of unbearable silence where Achilles would not respond, or look at him. 

He hesitated before getting it out. “Why won’t you look at me?”

“Because I _can’t_!” Achilles snapped, and it was the first Patroclus had ever seen the man lose his temper. 

Achilles restrained himself immediately.   
“I - I can’t.” 

He placed a hand on his forehead, pinching the bridge of his nose.   
“Do get out of my study. I would prefer to be alone this afternoon.” 

There were a few seconds where Patroclus was too shocked to respond. 

Then he was saying the words, asking what had been eating at him this whole time - he did not know where it came from, only that this brief moment of transparency gave him the will.

“How did you know?” 

Achilles’ eyes swung towards him. 

“How did you know I wasn’t him?”

He thought Achilles wouldn’t answer, at first. The man was agitated enough as it was. But the question seemed to calm him down, and Patroclus watched as he moved his mouth, chewing on a response.

“You think me an omniscient entity? You think there is some magic word, where I only have to wave my hand and gain knowledge of people’s actions?” 

“How did you _know_?” Patroclus pressed. 

Achilles stood up from his desk, so they were at eye level. He looked at Patroclus for a long time, as though determining if he even wanted to speak.  
“I didn’t,” he replied at last, softly. “Not until I asked you.”

Patroclus hung his head. 

“Then how did you put it together?” 

“Have I not told you the secret of all that has brought me here? Surely you remember.”

Patroclus waited for the man to continue, but Achilles simply turned to the window, looking outside.   
“Go on. Tell me. You are far more intelligent than you let on.” 

How could Achilles expect him to - and then he stopped, and made himself think. The first thing he had ever learned about the man. Aside from his love of music, that is. 

Slowly, he found the words.   
“Luck. Timing. And … observation of the enemy.” 

Achilles did not turn around, but his shoulders relaxed. 

“You think me an enemy?” Patroclus demanded. 

“I don’t know. _Are_ you?” Achilles did turn around then, and met Patroclus’ gaze with a kind of intensity he only remembered from the time the man had held a knife to his neck. 

Patroclus found a chair and sank into it.   
“Tell me. Please. I want to know.” 

Achilles’ chest heaved in a deep sigh, and he returned to his seat as well.   
“The pieces just weren’t falling into place,” he started. 

“I admit I had my own biases, my prejudices that shaped how I expected you to be when you arrived. In many ways, you were just like what I thought. And in many ways, you weren’t.”   
He leaned back in his chair. 

“There was more. There were your dynamics with the servants. Unless my information was inaccurate, Trojan culture insists that those of lower rank walk one step behind at all times. Yes, we are in Hellas, but you were entirely too comfortable with treating them as equals. Still - it was not enough to suspect you. Just something I noted.” 

Achilles paused, as though collecting his thoughts from the past few months. 

“And then the introduction to court came. I became rather conflicted. You carried yourself exactly how you were supposed to. And yet - there was something missing. Before I saw the painting, I never believed for a moment in those rumors about Paris. It was a carefully constructed image, one that someone like him would have accomplished through immense popularity. Don’t get me wrong. You understand the aristocracy far more than I do - but you simply didn’t strike me as someone who could turn minds and control word of mouth. But even then, I wasn’t sure.” 

“And then you saw the ring,” Patroclus whispered. 

“At the waterfall,” Achilles replied. “I had a better picture then. And perhaps, if you had been somebody else, it would have been enough. It would have been enough to tell me that you were dangerous and needed to be stopped. Only I didn’t. I waited. And I watched. And I had never wanted more in my life to be wrong.” 

Achilles smiled a little then; a cynical expression. He glanced at Patroclus, then away.   
“If it turned out that I _had_ been wrong, I was going to ask you to marry me.” 

Patroclus’ stomach gave way. He clutched at it, trying to stifle the emptiness. 

“But as I have always said -” Achilles continued, and the light in his eyes had dimmed from unhappiness.   
“You can never go wrong … when you know what to look for.” 

Patroclus slowly stood up. He couldn’t be in this room anymore. 

“So what are you looking for now?” he asked, feeling the first sting in his eyes. He refused to let it show.   
“Some reason to be suspicious of me? Some way to see me falter?”

“I don’t know what I have gotten myself into,” Achilles replied evenly.   
“But rest assured, I will be keeping an eye on you.”

Patroclus’ hands shook, in rage, in frustration, he didn’t know. He only knew he saw that disappointment in Achilles’ eyes, and it burned something inside of him. 

He grabbed at the chain around his neck and plucked it off, throwing it onto the desk. 

It made Achilles start; the loud thump of the silver against wood. 

“There! Perhap _this_ will ease your mind! The fate of Troy is in your hands, and now you can understand how much power you already have over us!” 

He turned and left the room, breathing hard, not even seeing where he was going.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He regretted his outburst the next day. And the next, and the next, as their days grew numbered until the time for the ball. Yet, Achilles seemed unfazed, and he had used up all of his anger that he could not muster the strength to bring it up. 

All that was left was a hollow uncertainty. He had practiced ballroom etiquette by himself in his room, and had Chryseis read him the names of all the attending aristocrats so he would know who they were. She was _still_ reading and testing his memory of them on the evening itself, as he ate his soup and fretted the entire day. 

“It’s only a few hours away now,” Chryseis reminded him.   
“If you’re not remembering them now you won’t remember them then. You’re going to worry yourself to death.” 

She was right, of course. 

“One more time,” he requested. 

“Just let me worry a little bit more and then I’ll be done.” He laughed nervously, and then Chryseis joined in, and soon they found themselves laughing alone in the kitchen together. 

“You are _too much_!” she exclaimed, smacking him on the shoulder with a tea towel. 

All of a sudden, he felt much better.   
\-------------------------------

Chryseis had more work to do and couldn’t help him with his dressing, but when he made his way up the stairs and to his room, he found he needn’t have worried after all. 

There was a beautiful suit laid out on his bed, dark burgundy with bronze trimming; nearly the colors of Hellas but not quite - he would blend right in, yet stand out at the same time, subtle and elegant among the sea of bright red and gold. 

He smiled wide when he saw the note left for him;

_You can thank me later. ~C_

He had no idea how she had managed to take his exact measurements, it fit him so well. The fabric was smooth and cool against his skin, and he wondered if this was how Paris felt every day. 

“You’re a genius, Chryseis,” he muttered to himself. 

And then he heard the clatter of wheels against stone, and knew the first carriages had arrived.


	15. Chapter 15

He’d never seen the main house look so splendid, even on the night of his introduction to court. It seemed lit from within, the chandelier from the ceiling glowing with hundreds of tiny candles. 

Instead of a few musicians, there was a chamber orchestra, and by the gods, the music seemed to lift them to the high heavens. He even recognized some of the songs, from nights of playing them with Achilles. His fingers twitched unconsciously then, finding the placements on the keys. He desperately needed to practice. 

It made his chest throb with that awful after-medicine feeling again, so he stopped, and tried to listen to the conversations around him. He saw Achilles in the distance, distracted by gushing lords and ladies. 

And an abrupt coldness at his side, like feeling he had forgotten something, only to realize it now when he saw it. 

“Stop it,” he told himself. He took a deep breath, and plastered on a smile when he noticed Lord and Lady Pherae approaching. 

“We meet again!” Lady Pherae greeted. She had feathers coming out of her hair, and he ducked his head to one side to avoid being hit by them as she moved her head this way and that. 

“A pleasure as always, Lord and Lady Pherae.” 

She looked him up and down, eyes glittering like a bird’s. “It seems the countryside has done well for you, prince. Don’t you look marvelous!” 

“You’re going to embarrass the boy, dear,” Lord Pherae cut in, and Patroclus felt a tinge of annoyance at the lack of respect. It went to show how the court of Hellas actually was - sweet talk that carried no meaning. They thought him a clueless foreigner, a mere accessory, and weren’t afraid to show it underneath the sugar-coated compliments. 

“One can hardly be embarrassed by such earnest words, Lord Pherae,” Patroclus replied, staring straight at him.   
“How do you find the ball?” 

“Very impressive,” Lady Pherae replied, just as Lord Pherae opened his mouth. She had a habit of talking right over her husband. Much like Lady Elis, Patroclus got the sense that she was the one who pulled the strings in the relationship. It was an unspoken observance he had made about Hellene nobility - their power dynamics seemed to lean towards the matriarchal. 

Just then, the symphony that had been playing trailed off, and there was a second or two of quiet before the next song began. 

“Ooh, the dances are starting!” Lady Pherae exclaimed. She looked at Patroclus expectantly, and he knew he was in for it. 

This was the part of the night he had been most nervous about; the dancing. There were so _many_ of them - waltzes and sarabandes and pavanes, that he could hardly keep track. He only had his sense of rhythm to count on, that was all.

He realized Lady Pherae was waiting for him to say something. He bowed immediately and held out his hand. The men always had to ask first, for some ridiculous reason. 

“Lady Pherae, if you would do me the honor of accompanying me -” 

“Certainly!” she took his hand, and they strode over to the dance floor where many couples were already gathered in two rows facing each other. 

_Hestia_ , he pleaded desperately. _If you are watching at all, may you steady my steps_.

Apparently the goddess had the night off, for he _struggled_.   
He managed to keep in time with the music, and kept a good posture throughout, but how his legs wobbled. He tried to match Lady Pherae’s steps, eyes roaming to study the dancers next to him in order to copy their movements. 

And then he bumped into Lady Pherae when they were supposed to switch places. 

“Pardon me,” he whispered, already feeling his face reddening like a sunburn in summer. 

Lady Pherae raised her eyebrows but did not comment. 

This torture went on for several hours, dance after dance after dance. At some point, Lady Pherae had gone back to dancing with her husband, and he was left to entertain several other nobles in group dances and partnered ones. Each would start out quite well, until the dance progressed into the more complicated steps and they realized he did not know what he was doing. 

And then the look of unimpressed mirth, and he wished Achilles had killed him after all. He glanced anxiously in the other man’s direction, all the way across the ballroom.   
Of _course_ Achilles danced perfectly, he thought to himself with ire. A commoner who could have been mistaken for a king. 

And here Patroclus was, supposedly a royal with two left feet. It would be no excuse at all that Trojans did not dance. After all, the real Paris _had_ been keen on dancing, no matter how much Priam disapproved of it. 

He was just about to give up and wait for the next song break to leave when he heard a couple of hushed, irritated voices nearby. He turned his head to see an older, distinguished-looking man with a younger woman. 

“No, _no_ , father, I don’t want to -”

“Briseis!” snapped the father. “This is a very important event! You will _not_ embarrass me!”   
And he took her hand and all but dragged her to the dance floor. 

Patroclus moved his head quickly but the older man still caught his eye.   
“Good sir,” he said. “Would you do us the honor of dancing with my daughter? I’m afraid we were a little late, and she has not had the chance to find a partner.” 

“Of course,” he heard himself replying, against his will, then the woman was in his arms and her father was striding away. A much more moderately-paced waltz was beginning, and he breathed a sigh of relief. No complicated steps, at least.

The woman was looking at him skeptically. 

“Lady Briseis, I presume?” he asked. 

She didn’t reply for a moment, then hung her head and huffed.   
“Of _course_ my father wouldn’t recognize the prince of Troy. And he says _I’m_ the one embarrassing him.”

He blinked at her. 

No pleasantries, no fawning smile. He did not know what to do with himself when a noble lady spoke to him _like a regular person_. 

“You -”

“And there I’ve gone, skipping etiquette again. I’m sorry. I just … don’t like Olympia very much. _There_. I’ve said it! If you have complaints, my father will be eager to hear them.” 

“No complaints,” he blurted out, laughing suddenly. 

He tried to think of the name. If she was Briseis, then her father had to be Briseus, Lord of Pedasus. 

“I suppose Pedasus is rather different from Olympia?”

Her face brightened up at the mention of her home. “You know it!” 

“I did spend the last few days studying the noble houses,” he admitted. He didn’t know what made him speak so easily, but her demeanor made him forget his initial anxieties. 

“Well, that’s far more than can be said of all these Olympians,” Briseis replied, looking around them with disdain. 

“You stepped on my foot,” she pointed out, just a minute later.

“I’m terribly sorry.” 

“You did it again.” She said it so matter-of-factly that he wasn’t even embarrassed. 

“And again, I am sorry. I’m afraid the cost of having me as a dance partner is severe damage to one’s feet.” 

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Briseis replied, pausing and lifting her foot to show him her shoes, made from a thick, padded material.   
“I came well-prepared, you see?” 

He nodded. “That’s a relief.” 

“I never did understand why dancing was so important anyway,” she continued. “You Trojans have the right idea. I would like to visit a place where this activity is banned.” 

“It’s not exactly banned,” he laughed. “Just as long as we don’t do it in open spaces, or in front of the king.”

They were getting some looks, because it was clear he kept stepping on her foot and steering her in the wrong direction. 

“Don’t worry,” Briseis reassured him. “If they start laughing at us, this is what we’ll say: _This is how it’s done in Troy and aren’t you supposed to know that, uncultured swine_?”   
She did her best impression of a pompous lord, and he had to bite his lip to contain his laughter. 

“Let’s get this over with,” he sighed, because the song was only beginning.   
\-----------------------------------------------------------------

The dance floor was just about crowded with people, and it was an effort not running into other couples as they twirled around. Despite Briseis’ contempt for the event, she was obviously much more experienced than he was, and proved their saving grace; he followed her gaze to know which direction to lead, and her inconspicuous whispers helped them avoid any accidents. 

It was nearing the end of the night, and he could see how dark it had gotten outside. The music had veered off into a much slower, sleepier melody, and he could feel his neck aching and his head getting fuzzy the more tired he got. Even the other couples did not seem as focused on the dancing as before, swaying slowly and getting caught up in conversation.

He winced a little when he heard his name mentioned. 

“- who would have thought he’d be such a spectacle. Only not in a good way!” And a high-pitched peal of laughter. 

He could hear Lady Pherae’s voice among the others.

“But look at that suit! I want to know who his tailor is.” 

“Good clothing cannot make up for a poor performance.”

“Oh, you know how those Trojans are …”

“Well I don’t, Lady Pherae! Do tell!” 

And more laughter. 

He glanced at Briseis, but she was not paying attention. Well, he could try not to either. 

Unfortunately, their voices carried, and soon enough he was unable to distract himself. 

“Well, he’s going to have to accustom himself with our way of life, considering the recent events.” 

“You think Pelides plans on keeping him around?”

“Why wouldn’t he? Besides, the poor boy must have no choice. We are fortunate that Hellas remains a safe haven.” 

He craned his neck to hear, frowning. _Recent events_?

“In fact, I’m surprised he’s managed to keep himself so composed in these times. It’s almost impressive, but then, he _is_ a prince, after all.”

“Of course he would. _I_ would, if I needed another country’s protection. As if anybody would want to spend their days with Pelides otherwise.”

“Don’t you rather like him, though? I mean, he’s a foreigner. But a royal one. I almost feel bad his country’s broken out in civil war.” 

He nearly tripped over his own feet. 

“Feel bad? Troy’s had it coming for years. Where were they when we needed them during the revolution?” 

“Shh! Don’t let anyone hear you saying that.”

“What? It’s not treachery, just a critique.”

“An invalid critique, seeing as Troy has no money.” 

Fuck. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_. His head swam, his feet were lumps of coal beneath him, threatening to make him keel over. Why was this the first he was hearing of it? _Civil war_? He glanced over across the ballroom at Achilles, once again preoccupied. 

The man hadn’t said a word. And his king … why hadn’t there been any news from Priam?

“Are you alright?” asked Briseis, for he had stopped dancing. 

“I -” 

_Oh gods_ , he was going to fall. He was going to fall, and no one would catch him. 

“I have to go.” 

“What’s wrong?” 

But he barely heard her, only broke away from their position and made his way across the dance floor, weaving through bodies, trying to keep himself steady as he walked, no matter how much his legs threatened to give out under him.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He went down the hallway, and turned his face quickly when he saw aristocrats hanging around in small groups, chattering together. 

_Wasn’t there a place where he could be alone_? 

He raced through each corridor, each alcove, until he finally came across a quiet corner and swung the door open into a large, empty room, a parlor of some sort. 

“Hestia,” he muttered, and then his legs really did fail him, and he was on the floor before he could even register it. 

His breathing was coming up in short spurts, and his vision was blurring, and he could only be thankful that it was quiet. 

Troy. Civil war.

He placed his head in his hands and tried to think.

They had been afraid of it happening, he knew. But considering how depleted their funds were, it had been unlikely to happen. There was simply no way Priam could finance an army. 

The princes, though. The princes had connections, and it was possible they had the means to send Troy into utter chaos, wresting the throne from their father’s hands once and for all. 

He hadn’t thought about his home in so long, and he hated himself for it now. All these months, slowly falling in love with Hellas over the border, and he had forgotten what he was doing this for. He had been so absorbed in his own concerns and sorrows that he had forgotten the millions of people who had really been counting on his success. 

And now it didn’t matter, because they were in danger and he could do nothing to help them, so far away. He was nothing but an empty shell thrown to the wind, carried this way and that until he had lost his way. 

“Breathe,” he told himself, because his chest was getting so tight, it hurt. He wound both arms around himself, knees to his chest, and forced himself to inhale and exhale. 

Every few moments he would forget to do it and his blood would race again, his eyes stinging with the pain in his middle. 

What could he do? What could he do? There was nothing. 

And he hated this feeling, this helpless isolation, all the people he knew and cared for in Troy. 

Evander, the few servants who had been pleasant to him. 

The king. 

Even gods-damned Paris, who would be just as vulnerable as he was during a war. 

He heard the sound of the door creaking open, and curled further into himself. They would find him like this, and he couldn’t bear it.

“... Paris?”

He looked up and cringed when he saw Achilles’ face, brows drawn together slightly. The man had one hand on the door, and slowly released it until it swung shut. He stood there wordlessly.

Patroclus struggled to say something, but all the strength he had mustered for the ball was gone. 

“Happy?” he croaked out. He squeezed his eyes shut. 

And he placed his hands over his face, to hide his shame, and his guilt, and the gods-forsaken _tears_ that were threatening to fall. No, they could not fall. They could not, he was _not_ going to let Achilles see -

But they did. And he hastily wiped them away, the weight of Achilles’ stare growing too much to stand. He forced himself to meet the other man’s eyes. 

So be it, he thought. If Achilles wanted to see him fall apart, so be it. 

Achilles was looking hard at him, having gone as still as a statue. 

“You wanted to see this happen,” Patroclus breathed, hating his voice for breaking.   
“You wanted to see me humiliated.”

Achilles frowned. “No -”

“Well, you’ve gotten what you wanted. Haven’t you?” 

“I _didn’t_ ,” Achilles gritted out.   
He walked over slowly, and knelt in front of Patroclus.   
“I would never -”

“You didn’t say anything,” Patroclus cut in, and gods, the tears really were falling now, fuck them. 

“I thought you knew.”

“You’re _lying_.”

“I thought you _knew_.” 

“You’ve _always_ been lying, ever since we met, ever since -”

“I have never lied to you.”   
And Achilles took him by the arms, although he tried to pull away.  
“You hear me? Everything I’ve ever said to you has been the truth.” 

“I don’t believe you,” Patroclus sniffled, but Achilles was _so close_ , those warm, familiar hands running up and down his arms, and all he had to do was -  
“Why, then? Why wouldn’t you believe _me_?”

Achilles sighed, and his face was so near, his arms winding tighter to lift Patroclus away from the wall. His eyes were lowered in that same unhappy expression, and despite himself, Patroclus wanted to reach up and touch them - to bring light back into them, if he had ever known how to do it. 

“Because - I wanted so much for you to be real.” 

Achilles closed his eyes, and Patroclus did the same.

“I _am_ real,” Patroclus replied, after a moment. 

“How could I have known?” Achilles’ voice was right next to his ear, mellow as a nocturne. 

“How, when the Paris I knew could share my dreams of the future, and love my people that way, and play notes of music faster than my heart could catch up? That Paris did not exist. It was impossible.” 

“ _I_ exist,” Patroclus said, his voice small.

“I’m not a spy. I’m not your enemy.” 

“I know that now,” Achilles sighed, and held him closer until his face was pressed against the other man’s shoulder. He breathed in Achilles’ scent and allowed the weight in him to ease. 

Sitting there like that, it was as though no time had passed between them. Not since Elis, not since Laconia. Just two people under the stars, and all the things they felt through the name of memory. And then -

“Why did you kiss me like that?” he whispered, and wondered if it was low enough that Achilles did not hear. 

He heard the other man scoff in a semblance of laughter.

“I’m only human,” he replied. “Another secret of mine, to add to your collection.”

“Soon the chest will be full,” Patroclus grumbled, earning a real laugh this time. 

There was a long silence, where he allowed himself to relax in Achilles’ arms. It was so comforting, so natural, that it was almost like it had happened before and he only had to recognize it. 

“You said I needed you.”

“Mm.”

“We can do this.” 

He wasn’t completely sure about that, but the conviction in Achilles’ voice was enough. 

He felt Achilles’ hand come up under his chin, lifting his face until they were eye to eye. 

“Tell me it’s you,” Achilles asked, and Patroclus could see the hesitation hovering behind his eyes. 

Here, he had to make a choice. They were balancing on the tip of the edge, and he could take the other’s hand to pull him to safety, or go undecided for too long until he fell. No one to catch him. 

Perhaps there _was_ someone. Right beside him.

“It’s always been me,” he replied. 

And he felt Achilles’ fingers tightening over him, a wordless sign that he was listening. 

It was dark in the room, and quiet. Nothing but their breathing. And he imagined those nights in the valley, when it had just been the same. He could return whenever he wanted. He could find himself there again, as long as he had the other man by his side.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Later on in his room, when he had shrugged off his clothes, that odd, refreshed feeling at having cried it all out, he sat on his bed; and he felt something under his foot. 

He dragged his toes under the bed, sliding it out, and found a white envelope, the crest of the House of Priam emblazoned on the front. 

His fingers scrambled to retrieve it, breaking the seal. 

It must have been lying under his suit, and in his haste to get ready earlier, he had swept it right off the bed. Achilles had been telling the truth. 

He ripped the envelope and unfolded the letter inside. 

_Dear Paris_ , it read. 

_In a few days, Troy will be on the path of civil war._

He read the lines over and over again, the sophisticated script of Priam’s scribe. 

He tried to get his mind to settle, to comprehend the paragraphs of information Priam had written to him, on how it had begun, who was on whose side, and what on earth they were going to do. 

It was the last few lines that stayed with him the most. 

_If there is anything to be done, you must ensure your safety within the walls of our good neighbor Hellas. It is too dangerous to return, and I beseech you - guard your life, for it is precious, to a king who knows no sons but this faithful one. May Hestia herself preserve you until we meet again._

_Your loving father._

He clutched the letter to his chest, thumbs stroking over the signature. This changed everything. There was a part of him that wanted to refuse, that wanted nothing more than to scribble a furious reply, demanding that he be sent back to help the Trojans with the war efforts. 

But he had been given a duty, and once again - his heart and his mind were set against each other, doomed in an eternal struggle.


	16. Chapter 16

Every morning, he waited at the window for any sign of an arriving messenger. He’d missed it the first time, and he wasn’t about to again. Nearly two weeks had passed since the dreaded ball; at first, he had stayed up all night wracking his brain for what to say. He’d used up sheets and sheets of good paper. Some response that would reassure the king, that would let him know Hellas was not a worry.

As the war raged on, it would become more difficult for messengers to cross the border. He thought of Priam, alone in his study, poring over battle plans and struggling to make ends meet. It was hard to sleep these days, his mind constantly plagued.

“Breakfast, Paris?” Chryseis poked her head in. 

Patroclus rubbed his eyes and looked over his shoulder at her.  
“Tell him not today, Chryseis.” 

He really hadn’t been in the mood for company for a while. An image flashed in his mind of Achilles, dining alone, spreading strawberry jam on his toast and stirring his tea with an empty seat across from him. It caused a small twist of guilt in his stomach, but he just couldn’t get his thoughts straight enough to face another person. 

Things had been easier between them, taking their time to mend and rebuild. But it was a slow process, and he hoped Achilles understood. 

Chryseis was quiet, but he could still sense her hovering in the doorway.  
“I’ll bring your tray up.” 

She hovered a little more, hesitating. It wasn’t at all like Chryseis to do so, and it made him look at her again.  
“Don’t you think some company would be good for you?” she finally voiced, her tone gentle. “Take your mind off of things?” 

He sighed. How could he explain it to her? He didn’t _want_ to take his mind off of things. His thoughts were on Troy, on all the people who were giving their lives while he stayed here safe and sound in mighty Hellas. It had just been luck. It had just been luck that he was here at all, and not bearing the burden with the rest of his people. 

“You don’t understand, Chryseis.” And he shut up immediately.  
He snuck one look at her, feeling ashamed. Why was he like this? What a thing to say to a person whose country, not too long ago, had experienced exactly this sort of upheaval, possibly on a larger scale. There would certainly have been horrors during the revolution. He hadn’t been there to see it, but he could imagine the fear, the suffering, the grieving for lost ones who sacrificed themselves in the name of freedom. 

“Sorry,” he whispered. He felt her hand on his shoulder a second later.

“... A dark time, it is,” she said. “To be afraid of losing the ones you love. Afraid that you’re not doing enough. You know, I lost my father during the revolution. He did not believe in war, but he was very brave all the same.” 

“I’m sorry, Chryseis,” he said again, and she squeezed his shoulder. 

“I too punished myself for what happened. I felt I didn’t deserve to see a Hellas reborn, a Hellas made for people like me. Ordinary people. But then I remembered everything my father, and other courageous people I knew did to pave the way for a leader we believed in. They did all that, so people like me could live in the future they so imagined. And it would be a shame indeed, if I would rather choose despair over the hope my father wanted for me.” 

He met Chryseis’ eyes and she smiled a little.  
“I know it’s not the same. But surely your father wants you safe for a reason.”

“I just wish there was something,” Patroclus breathed out. “Anything.”

“I know that feeling,” Chryseis replied, and for a moment they stood there in silence. There was something to be said about someone who could share in sorrow as well as laughter; finding understanding regardless. 

And not for the first time, he realized he was hardly alone in Hellas. This great country with its lands and peoples and cultures, and only common ground to be found when the differences were swept aside.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He couldn’t remember coming here. Only that he had been sitting on the bench for nearly an hour, one hand on the keys. Why couldn’t he find the song he wanted? he agonized. It was almost as though he was afraid of playing the wrong thing. 

Such silly fantasies and rituals created in the mind; if he could only find the right song, then perhaps everything would be alright. He knew he was being impossible. There was no tune, no melody, that could stop the fighting in Troy. 

Yet he waited all the same, opening and closing his eyes, taking deep breaths to remember. Wasn’t there one Achilles had played, the day they had met? The flying song. He tried it out. 

No. That wasn’t it. 

He was so engrossed in his attempts that he didn’t hear Achilles until the bench dipped beside him with the other man’s weight. He could feel that comforting familiarity with the man’s presence, and all at once, he knew what he was looking for. 

He opened his eyes and glanced at Achilles, who was merely waiting for him to speak. 

“Do you remember that song I sang with the girls in Elis? About the tree maiden?”

There was a second of silence, Achilles’ lips curling into a half-smile.  
“How could I forget,” he said. 

“Could you -” Patroclus swallowed. “Could you teach me to play it?”

Achilles did not reply, only placed his hands on the keys, and slowly began to play. 

The empty ballroom echoed with the lilting notes he knew by heart, and he closed his eyes again. 

Achilles played it differently than he was used to. 

Happy-sad, happy-sad. Happy-sad, happy-sad. 

The way Patroclus had sung it, just like his mother, had been perfect for the time and the place. 

And right now, the way Achilles showed him, was perfect for them. 

“Songs are strange, aren’t they?” he blurted out. “You’re hearing what someone felt at a certain time in the past.” 

Achilles said nothing, only looked at him and kept playing. 

To have hands like that, Patroclus marveled, shaking his head. A wide span and dexterous fingers, able to reach every key. He looked down at his own; short, thin fingers and slim palms. And he reached over, finding the same notes in the lower octave, and waiting for Achilles to slow down so he could mimic his movements.

He could only play with one hand at a time. Two, and he would muddle it up. But he played with his right hand and Achilles played with his left, and it made for a strange sound, where the notes for either hand did not blend together. 

Then the side of his hand touched Achilles’, meeting in the middle. He stopped playing, and felt the other man’s fingers weaving through his. He looked down at their hands and joined them together, palm over palm where the skin was warm. 

They sat there for a long time. And at the end of it, he thought he could muster a smile. 

Happy-sad, happy-sad. The sound of what they both felt, on one evening, at the house in Olympia.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Glaucus had been let go once Achilles saw no point of keeping him any longer. He now stayed as a guest, and they sat together for dinner. It was the first time in the past two weeks Patroclus hadn’t wanted to be alone. Even if they were just sitting wordlessly, with nothing to talk about. 

“I …” Glaucus started. Then clamped his mouth shut. “Want more wine?” 

Patroclus shook his head. Glaucus poured himself a glass and downed it in one go.  
“Sorry,” he exhaled, wincing at the taste.  
Then he poured himself another one and downed that too.

“Glaucus,” Patroclus chided, frowning in concern. 

They weren’t … friends, exactly. Or were they? He didn’t know enough about the other man to determine it. 

“You sure you don’t want any? It’s very good wine, from a place called -” Glaucus picked up the bottle and frowned at the label. “Elis.”

“No …”

The man moved to pour himself another. 

“Glaucus!” Patroclus exclaimed. “Do you think that’s wise?”  
He gently took the bottle away and placed it on the shelf behind them. He didn’t know _what_ to say. 

Glaucus leaned forward, eyes glittering.  
“Say, Patro - _Paris_.” He giggled a little.  
“I can’t help it, it’s too funny! Paris. Patroclus. Paris. Patroclus. At some point, it all jumbles up in my head. Oh, but you’re _much_ nicer than Paris, Patroclus.”  
He made a face. “That Paris. Never liked him, if I do say so myself.” And then he said a very rude word. 

“Glaucus …” Patroclus sighed. He had never seen someone get so drunk so quickly. It was almost impressive. 

“When we were little, he pushed me into the pond and said the water sprites were going to come get me. I’m _still_ afraid of water till this day.” 

Glaucus twirled his empty glass in his hand. 

“That was before you came along, of course, Patroclus. And then my father stopped going to the palace so often. Oh, father.”  
Glaucus blew a raspberry, his cheeks bright pink from the wine. 

“I loved my father but he never liked me much.”  
He paused and seemed to think about it a little, the gears whirring in his head.  
“I think it’s because I reminded him too much of mother.”  
Glaucus sniffed a little, and Patroclus could do nothing but reach over and pat his back, feeling extremely awkward. 

“And then this war is happening and I thought, oh dear, father would have _hated_ it. He supported Prince Hector to _avoid_ the chance of a war. And then I went to a temple and got these -”  
Glaucus was barely making any sense now, but he reached into his pocket and pulled out two strings of prayer beads, which had been popular in Troy. 

“And then I remembered that I’m not very religious!” Glaucus spluttered, and blew his nose into his shirt. 

“I …” Patroclus mumbled, reaching around for something to say. Somehow, he sensed that this was an instance where no words were best. 

Glaucus suddenly sat up straight. “Say, Patroclus - I almost forgot!”  
He lowered his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “I have opium in my room!”

“... What?” Patroclus voiced weakly. 

Glaucus looked around, as though fearing someone would hear them.  
“I know I said it was a stupid trend, but the people at Laconia sold me some and I was curious, you know? Shall we?”

“Glaucus … this is not going to fix any of our problems,” Patroclus muttered, feeling like an immense hypocrite. 

_Now_ he knew what Chryseis felt every day, calling him down for breakfast when all he did was sulk at the window. 

Glaucus stared at him for a minute, then slumped. “You’re right. I should just throw it away.”

“Look, why don’t we just have a nice dinner?” Patroclus offered, arranging the plates and slicing the bread so they could each have a piece.  
“We’ll take it one day at a time.” 

That was what Chryseis would have done, he mused.  
“Let’s get some food in you to soak up all that wine.” 

“I’m going to throw up,” Glaucus mumbled regretfully. 

Patroclus could only palm at his forehead, watching the other Trojan unravel like this. Perhaps they _were_ friends, after all.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was nighttime, and he was leaning out his window to catch a last glimpse of the spring blossoms before they changed color for summer. How quickly it had all passed by. An entire season, a season of change and conflict, but not without its better moments. 

They were meant to be savored, Patroclus thought. The simple things, like the color of flowers and the smell of herbs and the lights dancing across the river. They were meant to be savored, for who knew when they would be gone, with no chance of experiencing them again? 

He wondered who lived on the other side of the river. Some aristocrats, probably, in their summer homes by the water. The lights from their windows reflected all the way to House Pelides. And perhaps on their end, House Pelides’ lights could reach them too. 

He could hear the waves, the rush of the river current. It was oddly strong tonight. He had been warned that the river was not one to swim in, due to its strength and the danger of drowning. He wasn’t a very good swimmer anyway, content to listen at its side. 

It was odd, how those waves sounded so much like … and he leaned over the windowsill, because it _could not be_ , water did not make sounds like that. 

It was the piano from the ballroom, and he could only stare, because what was Achilles doing out here so late at night? He thought he must have been hallucinating. 

Then the other man caught his eye and he knew it wasn’t a hallucination. 

“Did you _drag_ the piano out of the house?” Patroclus yelled in disbelief.

“I had help!” Achilles yelled back. 

“Just _what_ do you think you’re doing?!” 

“What am I supposed to do? You won’t see me at breakfast and you hardly come down for lessons!” 

Patroclus sighed, shaking his head to himself, but he couldn’t stop the amusement from rising up. 

“So you thought you would play music outside my window? This doesn’t make any sense!” 

“Isn’t that what they did back then? Serenade each other? I always thought it was nonsense but apparently I’ve bought into it!” 

“You’re insane,” Patroclus muttered, but he couldn’t keep the smile off his face. 

“I can do more,” Achilles added, and eyed the vines leading up to his window. “I’m a rather good climber, if you didn’t know that about me.” 

“Wait -” Patroclus got out, eyes widening. “No! You’ll fall and break something!” 

But Achilles was already up the wall, using the spaces between the bricks to hoist himself up. He did it so swiftly that he was balancing on the windowsill before Patroclus had time to shout more objections. 

“There,” Achilles said, looking pleased with himself. “Another thing they did back then. Climb up to the highest window for a secret rendezvous.” 

“This is not the highest window,” Patroclus pointed out. 

But he laughed and opened the window wider so Achilles could get in. It almost reminded him of being in the carriage together, the window just wide enough for them both to look out. 

“You were right,” he said, when a few minutes had passed.  
“About questioning everything I’ve ever known.” 

Achilles was silent for a while, but he threw Patroclus a meaningful glance. “You’ve just described every day of my life.” 

“Did you ever think you were wrong? To lead the revolution? To put your country at war?”

Achilles frowned. “Only always. But I knew it had to be done. And there were men far better than me, who had started the journey before me. I was only the one to finish it.” 

“Achilles Nobody from Phthia,” Patroclus teased, because they had mentioned it once. 

Achilles looked straight at him. “What is your name?” he asked. His tone was not demanding, simply curious. 

Patroclus felt a stutter in his heartbeat. He hadn’t expected it at all. He moved his mouth, but there was something inside him - something that wouldn’t cooperate. All those weeks ago, and the question had come back, again. If he was Paris, then what would happen to Patroclus? 

Yet he had told Achilles it had been him all along. 

Patroclus, who could share his dreams, had fallen in love with his people, and had learned to play his music. 

Patroclus, who had gone on an adventure and made friends with strangers and did things he’d previously thought he couldn’t. 

And Patroclus, who was just an ordinary person and did not have Paris’ hard, protective shell. 

Paris, he could give Achilles. Paris, who was very nearly Patroclus in all but name and the secret fears and hopes and dreams that lay within. But he was not sure he could give all of himself. Wouldn’t he fall apart, if there was nothing to hold him together? 

He had been silent for too long. Achilles was looking away now. 

And a moment later, what the man said surprised him.

“Is it Lysander?” 

“What?” 

“Something tragic and romantic,” Achilles mused, stroking his chin. “You seem the sort.” 

“... It’s …”

“Perhaps it’s something martial and powerful, like Sarpedon. Doesn’t suit you, but we don’t choose the names we’re given.” 

“Do you really think you can _guess my name_?” Patroclus asked, incredulous. 

Achilles shrugged. “Or I could just ask Glaucus.”

“He wouldn’t breathe a word!” 

Achilles grinned, as though it didn’t bother him at all.  
“There should be some prize if I can guess correctly.” 

“I can give you a cookie,” Patroclus offered. 

It made Achilles laugh. 

But after the humor died down, he looked at Patroclus again.  
“I would guess as long as I need to. Until you entrust it to me willingly.”

“I -” 

He needn’t have said anything, for Achilles was already out the window, clambering down as stealthily as a fox. 

“Don’t forget the piano!” 

“Well, don’t forget to come for lessons!”  
\----------------------------------

He went to bed, feeling the burden of the past few weeks lightening at last. 

It was only the next morning when he woke up and realized what Achilles had really been trying to do - old-fashioned wooing and attempts to ridicule himself - all done simply to cheer him up from the slump that had taken a hold of him ever since news of the war. 

And it made him see the man in a new light. All the things he had learned about him; his laughter, his keen mind, his disdain for those who saw themselves above others - 

The things that he loved, the things that he hated, and the secrets he gave away so easily. All the things that made him human. 

There was the Achilles from Phthia, the Achilles of the people, and the Achilles who had seen right through Paris and caught a glimpse of Patroclus. Which Achilles was it? How could he know, for the man was all of these things, and to take one away was to never know him at all.


	17. Chapter 17

It was the second month of the war and the air was hot and breezy; summer had come to Olympia at last. 

The messenger had finally arrived, and he’d gotten a brief message stating that the king had received his letter. At least there was that. 

He had thought long and hard on whether to come. But Chryseis’ words resonated with him more than ever, and he clung to them when he was unsure. Especially when he needed to accept that life went on. 

He had known how much Achilles wanted him to be there. This was the pride and joy of the city, and the start of summer marked its most famous performances.   
The Olympia Opera House, a home to the arts. A monument of Hellene history, for it had stood for the crowning of every king, the rise and fall of every royal house, and finally, the abolition of monarchy itself. 

He remembered the first time he had seen the building, that first week in Olympia. Now, it was no less of a marvel, the high ceiling and chandeliers, the candelabras on every wall, the gilded balconies and alcoves in every direction. They had a direct view of the stage from their box, the seats of honor in the house. 

He could hear the people filing in through the rows of seats at the bottom, and he leaned over the balcony to watch them, so small and far away they seemed like little children. There were people chattering in excitement, people clutching their programmes, people fanning themselves because it had gotten quite stuffy inside. 

He glanced back at Achilles and shared a grin with him - the man had to be used to it, but he didn’t know how anyone could get used to this place. The _smells_ , the velvet of the curtains and the fresh paint from the stage and the burning oil from lights high above. 

He couldn’t see the orchestra, but Achilles had assured him there was one. It took a long time for everyone to settle down, and he knew there was a huge crowd outside still bargaining for last-minute tickets. Eventually, the stage lights were on, and the announcer appeared to greet the audience. 

He barely heard what was said, he was too busy peering out at the other balconies at the sides of the stage, seeing if he could spot the people in them; until a signal from the announcer had everyone on their feet, and the entire theater turned towards their box - a mark of respect for the leader of Hellas. 

Patroclus had turned a little red, even though they weren’t really visible in the dark seats. He looked at Achilles but the man only nodded solemnly, waiting for the salute to end. 

“And now, the dimming of the lights, in recognition of our Trojan neighbors…”

The entire theater was silent as death, while the stage lights were lowered for a few minutes. Unconsciously, his hand found Achilles’s, and the feeling of that solid strength holding on to him steadied his spirit for those few minutes. 

Then the overture began, and he forgot everything he had been thinking. His heart was beating so fast as the curtains parted and the first scene appeared; and he recognized the song. It was the flying song, the one Achilles had been playing when he’d first met the man. He met Achilles’ gaze and saw him smile a little in acknowledgment. _Now_ he knew why Achilles had wanted him to see this specific show. 

It was called _Orpheus and Eurydice_ , a story he had encountered in one of the books Chryseis had given him; and one he had been unable to put down. But to see it come to life, to see it performed - to watch Eurydice sing her final aria before death claimed her - he found himself gripping the edges of his seat, knuckles turning white. 

There were several intermissions, but he didn’t even remember them. He didn’t even really notice when a man he didn’t recognize entered their box and said something to Achilles, bending his head to whisper in the man’s ear. 

Nothing could have woken him up from the story, eyes glued to the pastoral scenes where Orpheus played his lyre, holding his breath during the descent into the underworld, and hoping, desperately hoping, that the two lovers would be reunited. 

“Don’t look,” he whispered, willing the character on the stage not to look back, to keep holding his faith, to keep walking forward, while the shade of his beloved followed his every footstep. 

_Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look_. 

He knew how the story ended. He did. But a part of him hoped anyway. 

Then Orpheus looked back, and just like that, it was all over. 

“You alright?” Achilles whispered to him, breath tickling the side of his face. He looked down and realized he was still holding on to his hand. 

“Sorry,” he whispered back, but Achilles only shook his head and tucked his hand into the crook of his elbow. 

They watched the finale, Orpheus’ mourning song, the pursuit of death as the only way out in the end. 

And then the lights were back on, and he was still in his seat, stunned. 

There was a standing ovation as the cast returned to the stage for their curtain call - and he shakily got to his feet, using Achilles’ arm for support. 

“A little too depressing?” Achilles asked, trying for humor - but Patroclus could see the watchful look in his eyes. 

He couldn’t find the right words. Only that -

“I didn’t want it to end,” he said, looking up at Achilles. 

The man was quiet for a while, and even with the noise from the audience, it was like they were in their own private world. 

“It doesn’t,” he said. “It doesn’t end.” 

“But Orpheus -”

“Surely you know the tale,” Achilles smiled.  
“Does he not live forever, enchanting the world with his music?” 

“But I think death would have been better,” Patroclus muttered. “Then he would have seen her again in the underworld.” 

Achilles said nothing to that, only led them out of their box and through the exit so they could go home. 

He thought about the performance for the rest of the day, replaying all the songs he’d liked best over and over again in his head.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was late morning, and he hadn’t been able to find Achilles for breakfast. 

Where was he? He wondered around the main house, stopping outside to pick the ripe hawthorn berries when he saw no sign of the other man. 

A window from the kitchen flew open. “I see you doing that!” one of the cooks yelled, and he dropped the berries in shock. 

“Sorry!” 

He decided to walk by the river. It was a good thing he wasn’t hungry anyway. 

He was busy watching the flow of the water, wondering if people ever took boats out, when a tap on his shoulder made him whirl around. 

“I never hear you coming up!” he said, and Achilles laughed at him.

“Better train your ears better, or you’ll never become a virtuoso.” 

“We both know I’m never going to be one,” Patroclus rolled his eyes. 

He had gotten much better at piano, able to play with both hands if he did it carefully enough - but how _slow_ he was. He had mastered the song of the tree maiden, and that was it. Yet, he remembered all his old anxieties about not being good enough to learn, and found that they were gone. 

He may not have been good, but he was certainly good _enough_ , and just as determined as anyone else wanting to learn music. If there was anything Achilles’ lessons had taught him, natural talent was only a small fraction in the amount of work needed to better his playing. 

“Did you think about it?” he asked, as they strolled along the riverside. 

Achilles raised an eyebrow at him in curiosity, then hid a smile.   
“Don’t tell me that opera is _still_ on your mind.” 

“I know he lives forever so the world can hear him play … but isn’t it a tale of love, where he would travel to the depths of the earth just to see her again?”

“Only he never saw her,” Achilles reminded him. “He made the wrong decision, and it was too late.” 

“Perhaps not, but he had to know she was there.”

“How? How could he have known?”

Patroclus thought about it for a while. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Faith, I suppose.” 

Achilles did smile, this time, but it was a skeptical one.   
“Is that what love is, then? Faith, even when the darkness conceals the other?” 

“It has to be. Then what is the point of getting to the other side, unless there is faith that their love endures?” 

Achilles was silent for a while, eyes flickering back and forth as he contemplated it. 

“You might just be right,” he decided, meeting Patroclus’ eyes. 

“Anyway, I thought we could spend the afternoon in the ballroom.”

“But I practiced for hours yesterday!” Patroclus protested. 

“Whoever said anything about that?” Achilles asked, and there was a twinkle in his eye as he led Patroclus inside.   
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The ballroom was empty, save for the few musicians who had been there at their very first banquet. Patroclus recognized the cellist with the gigantic moustache, who winked at him again. 

“What … what are you doing?” he asked, tentatively. 

“I saw the way you danced at the ball that night.”

He felt his stomach drop in embarrassment.   
“Oh no.” 

“Oh _yes_ ,” Achilles replied, expression laced with mischief. 

“I see you’re intent on reminding me of that! Especially when I promised I wouldn’t fail you.” 

“It was hardly a failure. In fact, rather amusing, seeing you step on that poor girl’s feet.” 

“You’re not going to make me dance again, are you?” Patroclus asked, a pleading tone to his voice. 

“You might be surprised, but it can actually be enjoyable.” 

“I don’t know about that.”   
Yet he knew he had to try. That ball was only the first of many to come, and considering the gossip he had heard afterwards, his lack of skill had been the subject of much scrutiny. He was a prince, a Trojan prince. And princes could dance. 

Achilles glanced at the musicians and made a sign for the first song. 

Then he pulled Patroclus towards him, and began their steps across the floor. It was the most simple of the partnered dances, but he was very aware of how close they stood together. He had been this close to Briseis when he was dancing with her, but he hadn’t even noticed. 

With Achilles, he felt the fabric of his shirt, and the lines of his palm under his own; his gaze was drawn to the curve of the other’s jawline and the skin of his neck, and all at once all he could think about was that night, when he’d run his fingers right over them, and decided that feeling was even better than looking -

“Sorry,” he murmured, because he had stepped on Achilles’ foot. The man didn’t comment, only kept going. 

The melody had slowed down to match their pace.

“I keep -”

“Don’t think about it,” Achilles said, and his nose was right against the side of Patroclus’s face.   
“Just keep going, and soon you’ll forget I even have feet to step on.” 

He did forget. It was so strange, how wide and empty the ballroom was, when that night it had been full of liveliness - yet he had felt so alone, so out of place, and longing for something that was out of his reach. And now it was just the two of them, them and the music, and time could have stopped for all he knew, for it seemed to go on forever. 

“Could it be like this?” he wondered, then realized he had spoken out loud. 

Achilles lowered his head and met his eye.   
“It could be like this,” he said. 

He felt his face heat up. 

Then he stepped on Achilles’ foot, and stumbled, and tripped the both of them so they teetered out of position. 

“I’m -” he burst into laughter, grabbing on to Achilles so the man wouldn’t collide with him. 

“I think that’s enough for today!” Achilles said, starting to laugh too.

The musicians were laughing along with them, but the cellist with the big moustache raised his bow. “You’ll get the hang of it!” he crowed. 

“I must say, I’ve never danced with someone who made us both lose our balance,” Achilles declared.

“You sing praises too high,” Patroclus replied, and smiled a little when it coaxed another laugh from Achilles. 

“I _will_ learn,” he insisted, because he was sure of himself, now. There would be many days like this, where he could do nothing but mess it all up, but for a moment, he had really been dancing.

“I know you will,” Achilles said, and touched his cheek.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He hadn’t been sure about showing Glaucus the temple of Hestia, but it had been months since he’d set foot in it. And somehow, he thought his fellow Trojan would appreciate a place of tranquility and solitude, away from the complexities of the city. 

They held their nightly vigil here, thinking of the names and faces they knew. The soft glow from the candles was enough to lull him into a sort of meditation, and he knew it was the same for Glaucus. 

“Is it wrong?” the other man asked, whispering so as not to break the peaceful atmosphere. 

“Is what wrong?”

Glaucus lowered his head. He was sitting on the ground, facing the statue of Hestia, which seemed to smile back at him in all her gentleness. 

“Not wanting the princes to be defeated. Not wanting … any of it. I just wish they weren’t fighting amongst each other. I know I’m supposed to support the king, but -”

“No,” Patroclus replied. “It’s not wrong. You knew them. They were friends of yours.” 

“I was too young to be a friend,” Glaucus cut in.   
“But yes, I did know them. And … I know what they stood for. They went against their father to do it, but in a way, I understood. They each had their own beliefs, and they would do anything to fight for it. Perhaps they went about it the wrong way, but …”

“Even so,” Patroclus said.   
“What matters is the people, and they are making the people face the consequences of their decisions.” 

“I know,” Glaucus sighed.   
“Are they in the wrong? Was the king in the wrong, for refusing to listen to his sons when he had the chance? My father always said … never mind.” 

“Your …” Patroclus hesitated.   
He hadn’t wanted to bring it up, especially when it was so adamant that Glaucus, an exile, show nothing but loyalty to the king.   
“I always thought your father was a good man. Of course, I didn’t know him well. But … perhaps he did what he did because he felt it was right.” 

“How did he know? How could betraying your king be the right thing?” Glaucus frowned. 

“I don’t know,” Patroclus replied, because he truly didn’t. Even now, he lived his life according to his duty, a duty that had been given to him by a man he trusted. 

But the discussion with Glaucus gave him pause.   
Wrong and right. How was there a way of knowing? People spent their whole lives searching for the answers, but in the end, men would do what they had to. Wars would be fought. Lives would be given. All for the sake of belief. 

Glaucus’ father had believed in Prince Hector’s ability to lead the nation. 

The king had believed his sons were undeserving of the throne, and refused to listen in fear that they would damage his kingdom. 

And Patroclus … he didn’t know what he believed. Only that everything that had shaped his life so far had led him here.   
Perhaps there was more to it than right and wrong. After all, what was the world but a collection of truths, seen through the eyes of the many? Each person, knowing it differently. Each person, remembering it differently. Perhaps there was more than one side to the story.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was only later on in his room, leaning out the window and waiting for Achilles - that he learned yet another truth. 

The other man had arrived every night, and they sat with the window wide open to let in the warm air. It was windier at night, and he loved how he could catch the scent of the outdoors just by leaning his head a little further.

What they spoke of, he couldn’t always recall, only it was as though they had transported themselves to the great plains of Laconia and the valley of Elis again. With Achilles, the time and the place did not matter. 

They could be stuck in a carriage, or here in his room, and there was an unnameable feeling where the world slowed down on its axis, just for a little while. 

A little while was all he wanted, he thought, studying the other man’s profile.   
Achilles always looked the same, he thought. Whether he was in full statesman’s attire, or dressed down for the night. Whether he was in a ball among aristocrats, or helping Agapenor’s family haul luggage up the stairs - he looked no different.   
That same face, that same smile, those same eyes. Only a difference in light, flaring with happiness or dimming with restraint, like those stage lamps at the opera house. 

He’d never met anyone like that before. Someone so consumed by thought, yet unafraid of emotion. 

“You seemed sad,” Achilles said, out of the blue.

“Hmm?” 

The other man turned to look at him.

“You seemed sad. In your painting.” 

Patroclus hadn’t expected it to be brought up again, and it caught him by surprise. 

“I … do I seem that way?” he asked, uncertainly. 

Achilles leaned his head to one side. 

“Not when I met you. Now? Perhaps a little.”

There was a silence, while Patroclus struggled with what he had been wanting to ask Achilles for a very long time. He had decided not to ask it; but now, he felt that he had to.

“Why did you want him?” he voiced.

Achilles did not answer for a while.   
“Him?” 

“Paris of Troy,” Patroclus added. 

Achilles pursed his lips.   
“Why would you think that?” 

“You said you didn’t believe in all the rumors about him. So why did you want to see him?”

Achilles scoffed, turning his head to one side.   
“I couldn't have cared less about the damn painting! It was …” he frowned.   
“It was what it represented.”

Patroclus waited for him to continue. 

After a few seconds, Achilles sighed, and met his gaze again. 

“In all the old stories,” he began. “The beautiful are victorious, and the ugly are defeated. In all the old stories, that is the meaning of good and evil.” 

“I thought you hated Old Hellas,” Patroclus said. 

“Yet it was the only part of it that meant anything to me. If I could reconcile myself with that world, if I could be the leader my people trusted in just as much as they trusted in those heroes of old; then surely the path to glory was not as unreachable as it seemed.”   
Achilles let out a breath.   
“I told you those rumors were meaningless. Yet, to my people, it was the kind of belief they needed for a Hellas that represented the good, the beautiful, the victor over all evil.”

Another silence, as they thought it over. 

Then Patroclus made up his mind. 

“I don’t know if I believe in the old stories,” he said.   
“But I believe in you.” 

Stage lights, emerging out of pitch blackness. That was what it looked like when Achilles smiled at him that way. 

“Well,” the other man said, taking his chin and kissing him softly.   
“It’s a good thing you do.” 

“Wasn’t I right?” Patroclus asked. “Wasn’t I right that love is only faith to hold on to, that you needn’t look back?” 

It was so quiet, that night, that Achilles’ laugh was only a faint echo thrown out to the wind.


	18. Chapter 18

He hadn’t realized he had slept in, until the sun peeked out of the flurry of clouds that had gathered for a coming storm. They reminded him of the clotted cream the cooks sometimes put out for tea time. He was transfixed for a moment, staring out the window with half-lidded eyes. 

And then there was a small whine from the foot of his bed, and he scrambled out from under the covers. 

“What -” he leaned forward, seeing someone had left a basket filled with towels in one of the chairs. He went and pulled out one of the towels, then jumped in alarm when his hand met a wet nose. 

“What on _earth_ …” He pushed the towels back, revealing a small, fur-covered face nosing out for his hand. It had brown eyes and immediately went to lick his hand, and he laughed, for all of a sudden he was brought back to those hunting days when he’d leaped in terror at the princes’ great hounds, only to find that they were friendly. 

“You’re not a great hound, are you?” he asked, and picked up the puppy. It fit in the crook of his arm, a warm, comforting weight. Such soft fur, black as coal, with some brown at the sides of the mouth and on the small paws. 

It wiggled around and mouthed at his arm, and he could feel its tiny teeth. “Now where did you come from?” 

There was a note left at the side of the basket. 

_I never did thank you for Elis._

It made him smile, seeing Achilles’s handwritten script. The image of their first hunting trip in Laconia flashed back at him, how the hunting dogs had answered to Achilles’s whistle, and how excited he’d been, seeing them and bending over to pet each one before they took off. Achilles had watched him in amusement at the time, but Patroclus would never have imagined the other man remembered it.

“Oh! Where do I put you -” he glanced around, knowing he had to get dressed. He couldn’t tell how late it really was, but it had to be very late indeed if Chryseis had left him alone to sleep. 

He placed the puppy on the floor, and his heart gave a little dance when it started sniffing at his ankles and following him around the room. Eventually, he managed to wash and struggle into his clothes, hurrying because he didn’t want to leave the puppy alone unentertained. 

“Come along, pup,” he said, picking it up again, having to adjust his arms a few times because it was a wriggly little animal. He went down the stairs and into the kitchen where he could hear familiar voices talking. 

“ - why don’t I get any of that soup anymore, Chryseis?”

“Because it upsets your stomach.” 

“Well, you know I like to live dangerously - oh hello, Paris. Nice dog,” Glaucus greeted. 

Chryseis smiled knowingly at him.   
“I would have woken you up, but you seemed really out of it.”

“What time is it?” 

“It’s midafternoon.”

“Oh …” he palmed at his forehead. He’d missed seeing Achilles today.   
Some days the other man seemed to have all the time in the world, spending hours on his music lessons or going for a carriage ride through his favorite streets in Olympia - but usually, they only saw each other first thing in the morning and at night, when Achilles climbed up to his room and they talked until he couldn’t stay awake any more.   
“I really did sleep in.” 

“Do you like him?” Chryseis asked, reaching over and scratching the puppy’s floppy ears.   
“We can set up a place in your room where he’ll be comfortable.” 

“I love him,” Patroclus sighed. “I never thought I could have a dog. They were only for … well, they weren’t really kept as pets in Troy.” 

“Definitely not,” Glaucus agreed. 

“They’re wonderful companions. Especially with House Pelides’ grounds. It would be perfect!” 

“It would be nice to have a companion,” Patroclus agreed. 

“Ex _cuse_ me,” Glaucus sniffed. “Apparently you see me as nothing but garbage!” But he smiled to show he was joking, and it made Patroclus laugh. 

Glaucus turned to Chryseis.   
“Now about that soup, Chryseis -”

“I told you, no more!”

It was his cue to leave, and he thought it was best to let the puppy get to know its surroundings. He would have to find Achilles soon, he thought.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was the strangest day. The storm was ever near, yet the sun stayed high in the sky, making the edges of the clouds turn golden as the sky darkened with every hour. After he’d cleared out a space in his room and made a partition for the puppy to sleep in, he’d taken him out to play in the grass. 

Several crows landed in the garden, and the puppy had a ball of a time chasing after them, fur as black as their feathers. And so he had named him Korax, after those clever birds. 

It was the third month of the war, and no news had come from Troy, save for word that the royal house of Priam endured. Since then, he had decided to focus all his attention on helping Achilles with his efforts to consolidate the nation. 

It wasn’t much, but a stable Hellas was their best bet to ensure Troy had a strong alliance to lean on. They had been visiting with the aristocrats who resided in Olympia, letting them know that they were recognized as contributing members of Achilles’s Hellas. 

It was a good thing that Patroclus went along; while Achilles could maintain a polite demeanor, he was too direct - something the aristocrats didn’t like. Achilles preferred to get straight to the point, which generally didn’t sit well with nobles who were too used to veiled words and pleasantries. The presence of a prince of Troy eased these interactions, if only to flatter the nobles and keep them from becoming too difficult to deal with.   
\--------------------------------------------

While Korax ate his dinner in the kitchen, Patroclus set out to look for Achilles. The man had to be terribly busy, but perhaps he could pop in for a quick word of thanks. He went into the main house, smiling as he passed the ballroom, and all the way up to Achilles’s office on the second floor. 

The door was slightly ajar, and he leaned forward to peek in, then saw that Achilles was in the middle of a meeting with someone else. He backed away immediately, not wanting to impose, but Achilles had noticed him and stopped talking. 

“Come on in, Paris,” he said, waving him over. 

Patroclus pushed the door open and stepped inside.   
“Pardon me, I didn’t mean to interrupt -”

“We were just finishing up. I suppose we’re due for an introduction then.”   
Achilles beckoned at the man sitting across from him, dark-haired and of an age, whom Patroclus could tell was very tall even while he was sitting down. He looked familiar, but Patroclus could not place where he had seen him before. 

“This is Diomedes, arguably the most instrumental member of the revolution. I could not have done it without him.” 

“He exaggerates,” Diomedes replied, batting off Achilles’ statement. He had very intense eyes. 

“And this is Paris, Prince of Troy, as you know, Diomedes.” 

Patroclus offered his hand. “Have we met?” 

Diomedes shook his hand, smiling slightly.   
“You seemed far too engrossed in Orpheus and Eurydice to remember me, prince.” 

It came to him, then. The man who had snuck into their box at the opera for a word with Achilles, just a minute or two before disappearing again.   
“Well, it’s a pleasure! It’s not every day I get to meet Achilles’ old friends from the revolution, except for Agapenor, of course.” 

“I admit I don’t spend much time in Olympia,” Diomedes replied, sharing a look with Achilles. 

“He takes care of most of my business abroad,” Achilles explained. “A lot of contract work, mostly. Getting back the land that was sold to other countries during the reign of the Atreidae.”

“In other words, paperwork,” Diomedes quipped, making Patroclus laugh a little with his dry tone.   
He stood up from his chair and gave Patroclus a small bow.   
“I should be going. I’ll be back next month to complete the debriefing -” he nodded at Achilles.   
“And then it’s back on the boat.” 

“Hang in there,” Achilles grinned.   
\----------------------------

They waited until Diomedes was gone, and then Patroclus took the seat that was now unoccupied. He couldn’t keep the smile off his face.

“How was your afternoon?” Achilles asked, after a few minutes of silence. 

“I have a dog,” Patroclus beamed, unable to conceal his excitement. 

“Really? Well, isn’t that exciting news.”   
Achilles’ face was serious, but that first sparkle of amusement was creeping up to his eyes. 

Patroclus couldn’t keep it in anymore. 

“His name is Korax because he likes chasing crows, and he’s absolutely beautiful!” 

Achilles did smile, then. 

“He was part of the new litter at Thrasymedes’s kennels. Not a hunting dog - but they said he is a very intelligent breed nonetheless.” 

“Thank you.” Patroclus got up, went to Achilles and put his arms around him. “He is really wonderful. _Thank you_.”

“Perhaps someone can keep you company while you wait for your king’s messengers, hmm?” Achilles asked, and Patroclus bent down and kissed him. 

“That’s an idea.” 

Achilles’s cheek was pressed up against his, and the solid weight of his shoulders in Patroclus’s arms was comfortable. He would have stayed like that for the entire afternoon, if he could.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The month passed quickly, and he and Korax became well-adjusted with each other. He went to sleep at night content that the dog was only a few feet away, and it lightened his days, being outdoors all the time when he wasn’t chasing Korax through the corridors. 

Even Chryseis remarked that he had gotten a healthy color to his cheeks. Summer was perhaps the most eventful season at Olympia - when there weren’t fancy luncheons and boat rides at the river, they went to see the horse races. Glaucus became quite a fanatic, and bet a lot of money on the horses he liked best. 

Patroclus wasn’t sure the man _had_ a lot of money, especially now when it was nearly impossible to receive funds from Troy - but he had a feeling his friend tended to cope by distracting himself as much as he could. 

“The hardest part about being an exile -” Glaucus explained one afternoon, when they were throwing sticks for Korax to fetch -   
“is not being able to go back and enlist in the army. I know what you’re thinking. I would be a _terrible_ soldier. But it’s better than nothing, isn’t it?” 

“I would be a terrible soldier too,” Patroclus replied. “Yet I can’t stop that feeling, if they could have one more man to bleed for them, it would make all the difference.” 

“The truth is, it wouldn’t.” Glaucus pursed his lips, taking the stick from Korax when the dog ran up to him. He raised his arm to toss it in the air.   
“But my brain won’t shut up about it!” 

“Your brain and my brain seem to be cousins of some sort,” Patroclus complained.   
“Perhaps they conspire with each other on how best to plague us.” 

“I think you have a point there,” Glaucus agreed.   
“Good boy, Korax!” he bent down and scratched at the puppy’s ears. Korax panted happily, waiting for Glaucus to throw the stick again. Patroclus had been appalled at how fast he had learned it. 

Just then, a carriage drew up in the driveway, and they watched as Diomedes left the main house and walked across the grass to his waiting ride. Korax immediately bounded over to this new person, and they had to chase after him. 

“Korax, no!” 

Patroclus reached Diomedes, trying to catch his breath, while the other man knelt and reached out a hand to let the dog sniff at him. 

“Please excuse us,” Patroclus exhaled. “We’re still trying to train him.” 

“It’s no matter,” Diomedes said.   
He looked up and nodded at Patroclus, then looked a little behind him.   
“How do you do, Glaucus.” 

Glaucus was silent behind Patroclus. 

“You know each other?” Patroclus questioned, confused. 

“No,” Glaucus replied. 

“It’s been a long time,” Diomedes considered.   
He had a very calm way of talking, as though nothing would ever surprise him in a million years.   
“The last time I saw you though, you were naked in a -”

“I’ve never met this man!” Glaucus exclaimed vehemently.   
“Come on, boy,” he said, taking the dog’s collar and leading him away with an indignant tug.   
“Let’s get you away from this _stranger_.”

“I …” Patroclus started, seeing Diomedes’s eyes crinkle with mirth.   
“I don’t want to know.”   
\-------------------

As it turned out, Glaucus was not able to keep his mouth shut for very long. 

“Alright, fine! Since you have been wondering about how I know Diomedes -”

“I never spoke of it once,” Patroclus reminded him. 

“We met several years ago, when I was living just over the northern border. It was a sunny day. In fact, the sky was so blue that -” 

“I don’t need the whole story,” Patroclus cut in, holding up both hands. “In fact, I don’t need to know at all.” 

“He saved my life,” Glaucus continued, looking somewhat embarrassed. “From what, I’m not sure I should tell you.” 

“You don’t have to -”

“Alright, I’ll tell you! I was young, and naive -”

Patroclus rolled his eyes. He was pretty sure Glaucus was _still_ young and naive. 

“And I had just been let out of the boarding house I was staying at. I had nowhere else to go, only a few pennies to my name. I ended up gambling it and winning quite a hefty sum. Now I could afford to stay in inns all over until I found a way to cross the border into Hellas. But then I … ended up losing all my winnings and racking up debts and … let’s just say I had some unwanted attention.” 

“I can imagine,” Patroclus said, remembering the addictive behavior Glaucus was rather prone to. 

“They got me one night, when I was on my way back to my room, and stole all my clothes -” Glaucus was bright red now.   
“I promised to pay them back, but I couldn’t quite get the money, so they were going to _kill_ me - the thing was, Diomedes happened to be staying there, and he fought them all off. We might have been making a lot of noise and disturbing him - I think those men just caught him on a bad day.” 

“If he saved your life, why didn’t you want to talk to him?” Patroclus asked. 

“Well, we had an argument. We had gotten quite close, and he actually helped me with the paperwork to get into Hellas, but then … oh, I don’t even remember what we argued about.”   
Glaucus rubbed his face.   
“The thing is, we lost touch over the years. I lived a good life as an aristocrat in Hellas. And … it’s mainly because of him. Perhaps I was ashamed, seeing him again after all this time. Not to mention I was a _prisoner_. I bet he’ll have a good laugh at that.” 

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Patroclus mused, patting Glaucus on the back. 

He often forgot how much the other man had been through just to find a place to settle down. And here he was, in his home away from home, not having to scramble for money or sleep in strange inns.   
House Pelides was even more familiar than the palace in Troy, and he had friends, and Korax, and … Achilles.   
He was a lot luckier than many people, he realized. And it was best not to take it for granted.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was a shuffle, the sound of feet against brick, and vines being rustled. 

He grinned and pushed the windows out even further. 

“I was waiting for you.” 

“It’s a good thing I’m always on time, isn’t it?” Achilles said, taking his hand and hauling himself through the opening. 

They stood there and looked at each other. 

“He doesn’t even bark anymore,” Achilles commented, when Korax padded over to greet him.   
“Perhaps I should stop. We’re training him to be a bad guard dog.” 

“And who exactly is he guarding me from?” Patroclus laughed, bringing Achilles towards him and touching their noses together. 

Achilles hummed, both hands coming to rest against his waist. 

“Oh, you know. Monsters. Evil witches. All the things that crawl in the night.” 

“I think I’m quite safe,” Patroclus whispered, and kissed him. How soft his lips were, the skin chapped in the middle where Achilles bit his lip quite often.   
“Don’t you think so?”

“I forgot what we were talking about,” Achilles admitted, kissing him back. 

Patroclus laughed, stopping only when Achilles’s finger traced down his throat, all the way to his collarbone. 

“What?” 

“It’s not there anymore,” Achilles murmured, looking at his skin intently. His thumb was resting against the place where the knife had cut Patroclus. It had healed so cleanly, there wasn’t even a hint of a scar. 

“That’s what happens. Cuts and burns. They heal.” 

“Not when they’re too deep.” 

“No,” Patroclus agreed. “But this one wasn’t.” 

He waited for Achilles’s eyes to come up again so they could meet - those two green orbs, not the green of the vines, or the grass, or the forest - just Achilles. Achilles’s green. 

“Always so serious,” Patroclus said, and placed kisses on the sides of Achilles’s mouth to make him smile. 

Achilles didn’t say anything for a while, and he knew he’d caught him in one of those moments.   
There were moments when the man laughed as easily as a bird could fly, and moments where everything he felt was plain on his face.   
And then there were moments like this, when he seemed still as a lake, his eyes watching without revealing the currents that lay beneath. 

“What are you looking at?” Patroclus asked. He always asked; because Achilles always told him. 

“You,” Achilles said. 

There was a long silence, and he brought both hands up to cup Patroclus’s face. 

Patroclus had stayed up nights wondering what Achilles thought when he got like this - so quiet. He had come to the conclusion that the other man simply didn’t have the words to describe it, or didn’t care to do so.

It was part of what drew him to the man, anyway. They were both lovers of music. But those instances when the notes faded away - perhaps those were the times when they could know each other best. For what was life without its quiet moments, and a companion to brave the silences? 

“You looked just like that, the night I said goodbye.” 

“Goodbye?” Patroclus inquired, suddenly panicked. 

Achilles smiled. He moved his head so his lips were at Patroclus’ ear.

“The night I cut you, and kissed you, in anger and in love.”

Patroclus held his breath - Achilles’s voice, always catching at something in him.

“That was a goodbye?”

“It had to be,” Achilles said. “Knowing I had to ask you what I did.” 

He closed his eyes, because he could feel them prickling behind his eyelids. 

All those days. All those nights. And to think the man had gone all that time, knowing what he knew, yet allowing himself to feel all the same. 

“Were you afraid?” he asked. 

Achilles nodded. “I felt I would lose you. Everything I had hoped for, turning to dust under my fingertips.” 

“So you kissed me, to say goodbye to the one you had known.”

Achilles leaned their foreheads together, exhaling softly. 

The seconds ticked by. 

Then Patroclus closed the distance, touching their lips in not quite a kiss, but merely to let the other know he was there. 

“Hello.” 

He could feel Achilles’s smile this time, and it was glorious on the lips.

“ _Hello_ ,” Achilles said back. 

“No more goodbyes,” Patroclus breathed, for that part of their life was over, and now it was a new beginning. 

He was in Achilles’s arms, and the wind was cool against his face, making his shirt rustle around him. 

“Is it strange that when I first saw you, I wondered what you kissed like?” Achilles asked. 

“Want to learn again?” Patroclus offered, and then their mouths were together, their bodies pressed against each other - and it was more than a little while.   
Nights could have passed by, sun and moon and sun and moon - over and over again, until the earth had completed its cycle, and they would still be there, together. 

The back of his knee hit the bed and he winced, falling onto his back. Achilles fell with him, rolling over so they did not collide. 

“Alright?” Achilles laughed, when Patroclus groaned and lifted his leg to rub at the sore spot. 

“Here,” he said, jabbing his leg at Achilles, and the man took his knee and kissed the place behind it. 

His hands ran up the side of Patroclus’ thigh, over his hip and his sides - up to his chest, along his neck, resting finally at the side of his face. 

The lights in the room shone right behind Achilles, forming a soft frame around his otherwise dark form. 

“We -”

There was a loud knock on the door, making them both jump.

“Oh!” Patroclus exclaimed, cursing himself.   
“I forgot! I asked Chryseis for more pillows!” 

He leaped off the bed, pulling Achilles with him. 

“Over here!” He shoved the other man behind the curtain, ignoring his protests. 

“What -” 

“Shh!” 

Korax was already at the door, whining for Chryseis to be let in. 

Just a second later it opened, and Chryseis walked in with a pile of bedding.   
“I fluffed them right up so they’re nice and soft.”

“Thank you, Chryseis,” Patroclus replied.

Chryseis glanced at him and patted the pile, raising her eyebrows a little.   
“I brought some for Achilles too.” 

His eyes widened.

She turned and left, leaving him mortified, mouth opening and closing as she shut the door behind her. 

The curtain started to move as Achilles burst into laughter. 

Patroclus covered his mouth, not wanting to make too much noise, but a few minutes later and they had completely fallen apart. He didn’t think he had laughed that hard in _years_.   
\-------------------------

It was near sunrise, the sky lightening a shade, when he turned to the other man and saw him watching, still wide awake in spite of the hour.

“What is it?” he asked. 

“I don’t know,” Achilles said, pulling him closer and resting his head in the crook of his neck.   
“I’m happy.”

Nothing would have made him fall asleep. 

Nothing, not even as the hours passed and the sun shone bright on his face - lifting him, lifting him up, for he was soaring on those edges of the clouds, golden from the heat in spite of the storm.


	19. Chapter 19

The bed was shifting around him; he gave a soft groan and buried his face further into the pillow. They slept with the window slightly ajar, letting in the night wind to keep the room cool. As autumn began, it would become chillier, although everyone he’d talked to had said it could be unpredictable. 

What time did birds wake up? he wondered, because the chirping had started. He knew what time the dog woke up. So many sunrises, where he would feel a tug on the blankets - Korax letting him know that the day had begun and he could do nothing about it. 

He felt it now, the tugging, and the mattress dipping, sheets being shuffled around him - then a warm body, pressed against the length of his back, and an arm coming to rest around his middle. 

He made a sound of contentment. It was getting light, a soft gleam over the room wherever the sun’s first rays touched. He could feel the outline of Achilles’ face on the back of his neck, puffs of air against his skin where the other man breathed - still half asleep. 

And then a sigh, and he knew the other was fully awake. 

He could sense the weight of the man’s gaze over his skin, could imagine those eyes blinking open at him. How strange it was to get to know someone this way; knowing how he looked, and sounded, and moved - the rhythm of him in the morning. 

On other days, when it was pitch dark, and he was still in the bonds of sleep; he would wait for it. 

A kiss on his shoulder. And then - 

“I’m going now.” Softly whispered, so as not to wake him up too much. 

“Mm.” 

Then another kiss, on his hair, lingering this time. 

Then the rustling of clothes being fastened, the fading footsteps on the floor as the other man left the room. 

He would always be asleep again before the door shut. 

But on days like this, when Achilles did not get up at an ungodly hour - he would bask in the warmth that was still around him, the natural comfort of opening his eyes and meeting the other’s. 

“Still asleep?” Achilles asked, and he hummed in reply. 

The blanket was being tugged with increasing force, the dog wondering why he was not getting up. 

“Go let him out,” he sighed, and turned to lie on his stomach. He heard Achilles’s laugh, the other man’s weight leaving the bed as he got up and opened the door. 

Then Achilles came back, crawled under the covers, and grabbed him around the waist, turning him over.

“Hey!” Patroclus protested, finally opening his eyes and seeing the other man’s grin.

He was answered with an energetic kiss, lips smacking over his, traveling over his jaw and his ear and his neck. 

“Hello,” he said, leaning back and letting himself savor it. 

“Hel _lo_ ,” Achilles said back. It was always a good sign when Achilles started out in this kind of mood. He would stay like this the whole day, every sentence a jest, nothing taken seriously. Patroclus could have said anything and Achilles would take it in stride, merely leaning his head back and laughing in that carefree way of his. 

He reached out and placed his hands over Achilles’s back, feeling the grooves of his shoulder blades and the smoothness of his skin. It felt good when Achilles mouthed at his neck like that, one hand around his thigh, stroking along the inside. 

“Are you falling asleep on me again?” Achilles asked, teasing him. 

“No …” But it barely came out; he was too distracted by the feeling of the other man against him, the scent of him, the silkiness of his hair in between his fingers. 

“I better find a way to wake you up then,” Achilles murmured, and he could only nod in agreement, taking Achilles’s chin and pulling it towards him again so he could feel those lips on his neck. 

Then there was a pause, Achilles pulling away for a second, the sound of clinking glass and a cap popped open. And then Achilles’s fingers were in between his legs, carefully slipping inside him, and that mouth was claiming his, the slow lick of the other man’s tongue parting his lips. 

He felt his leg being lifted, Achilles moving over him, and the full weight of the other man bearing him down on his back. He liked it this way, pinned against the mattress, their hips lined up so they could rock against each other; he could wrap his arms around the other man and feel the smooth expanse of his skin, feel the way his muscles moved as he slowly pressed into him. 

“Alright?” Achilles asked, and kissed him before he could answer. 

He made a noise in reply, leaning their foreheads together, knees hooking around Achilles’s hips to draw him even closer. It was never close enough, he thought, even when their bodies were molded together. He would not be content until he couldn’t tell where one began and the other ended, arms tightening around Achilles in an embrace. 

He could feel the other man begin to move within him, the first sweet sting rising in his belly, all the way down until he arched his back to meet him halfway.   
How long they lay there, he didn’t know, only that when he opened his eyes, all he saw was Achilles, clouding every inch of his vision. 

He didn’t think he could speak, only breathe out in gasps and hope it formed the man’s name. He was being slid backwards against the mattress as Achilles quickened his pace, the coolness of the sheets meeting bare skin; one hand tracing his cheek and the line of his lower lip. 

He was lightheaded and lost in the absence of sound; just a hushed room, and intermingling breaths.   
Perhaps the seconds and minutes were falling away. The walls and the ceiling, fading out of sight; for all that was left was the instance when he looked right in Achilles’s eyes, gold-tipped from the sunlight, and held him close, thinking he could never let go.   
\----------------------------

Afterwards he lay with the sheets tangled around him and watched half-lidded as Achilles got dressed. The other man walked towards him and took hold of his legs, pulling him across the bed until he laughed and kicked him away. 

“I’ll see you tonight,” Achilles said, giving him a kiss on the nose. 

The fullness in his chest felt peculiar, Patroclus mused, when he was alone in the room. In past days it could have been mistaken for pain, when in fact; it was just what it felt like when someone else had grabbed hold of his heart, and claimed it.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The arrival of Lord and Lady Elis marked a significant step forwards in Achilles’ rule over Hellas. While there had been gradual changes being made to how the Hellene court was run, there had never been a show of outright support from the aristocracy. What Achilles had been relying on was their cooperation, but there was no telling how long that would last. 

Now, Lord and Lady Elis had come willingly to pledge fealty to the country, in exchange for protection of their noble house. It was not only a subject much discussed in Olympia, but a push for other aristocratic houses to do the same. 

Patroclus had been entertaining the visitors for the better part of a week, and he could already see the effect it was having on the rest of the court. 

“Another thing to note about Hellenes,” Glaucus explained.   
“They always want to be the first to do everything. The fact that Achilles has offered Hellas’ protection to these country nobles will make other aristocrats elbow each other out of the way just to get a foot in the door, believe me.” 

“You think this will change how he is viewed?” Patroclus questioned.   
Over the months, he had discerned that Glaucus was rather astute when it came to affairs of the court. This _was_ a man who had spent most of his adult life around Hellene nobles, after all. It was not the first time he realized how valuable the other man’s observations could be. 

“How he is viewed? No. Achilles will always be seen as a dirty commoner who usurped authority,” Glaucus answered honestly.   
“But when a covenant is made between a leader and his people, _now_ he is seen as someone of value. They start to realize the advantage of gaining his favor, and there you go from there.” 

“Is this how it’s always going to be?” Patroclus sighed. “What benefits Achilles can bring their own houses, rather than the good of the country overall?” 

“Welcome to Hellene aristocracy,” Glaucus grinned. “If I do say so myself.”

“Achilles has a lot cut out for him,” Patroclus noted. 

“It seems that way, but it really is no different from the reign of the Atreidae. You think the royal family had an easier time managing these nobles? Perhaps they had centuries of _superior_ bloodline to hang on to, but at the end of the day, the environment was the same. Constant one-upping between each noble house.” 

“So to gain support from one house means to lose another’s?” Patroclus inquired. 

Glaucus smiled slightly. “Not if you learn to play the game. Not if you learn to study your opponents, and turn them against each other.”

“Achilles is good at that,” Patroclus muttered. 

“Let’s see how he goes about putting it in practice!” Glaucus proclaimed cheerfully.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Patroclus was relieved when Lord and Lady Elis left at last - it had been draining, spending every day engaged in discussion with them, showing them around House Pelides’ grounds. All the while being conscious that they were not quite in favor of giving up their lands, but did so out of obligation. 

He took Korax out for a walk to soothe his mind; both wistful and astounded by how fast his puppy grew. 

The conversation with Glaucus was something he’d been left to contemplate on; he had come to Hellas at the very beginning of Achilles’ leadership, when the country was still recovering from the aftermath of a shift in power. Everything Achilles had talked about, everything they had shared together - it was a vision no closer than it had been when they were touring the countryside. 

That wasn’t to say it was impossible - if anything, Achilles had taught him that nothing was out of reach, if one had the will and the courage to pursue it. But it was a long road ahead of them, and he had started to recognize that he thought of the future as _theirs_. 

This was not simply Achilles’ Hellas, a land he had happened to visit and become enchanted with. It was becoming a real possibility that Hellas would be his home for the next few years, however long civil war in Troy continued, and he had a responsibility to ensure its wellbeing. 

To be with Achilles was to take on his dream, to offer a shoulder to carry this great burden together. And … for the first time, he was seriously considering it. Not just a visiting prince, who would offer what help he could in the spirit of the alliance; but a _real_ partner, someone who was here to stay, and someone who had the people’s welfare in mind in a world that was run by the elite.

It was a lot to think of. And in many ways, he _was_ overwhelmed. But if he had learned anything at all in the past months, perhaps it was that he was a person worthy to embark on this great journey, with the man who had shown him what the world could be; a man like no other. 

After all, what was adventure but an exploration of the unknown, a net cast out into foreign seas? And he was no longer afraid of it.   
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“There’s your dinner, Korax,” he said, when they had finished their walk. “There’s a good boy.” 

He waited until the dog was tucking into his meal under the kitchen table, then went upstairs to get dressed down for the evening. The thought of no more meetings, of time away from the nobles, and peaceful days ahead was a tempting one indeed. 

He would have to savor these moments of serenity, if only to keep his sanity when Olympian society became another part of his life. Who knew it would turn out this way? he wondered, laughing to himself. Certainly not that young man who had ridden in a carriage over the border, thinking to pose as a prince and be done with it when the season was over. 

In fact, he was wearing the exact same jacket he had worn in that carriage, and now he shrugged it off, sighing with relief.

“You never answered my letters.”

The sudden voice broke his chain of thought, and he whipped around. 

He stood there for a second, frozen in disbelief. 

_Polyxena_. 

She was in the _middle of his room_. Staring at him. 

It was silent for a moment. 

Then he heard himself giving out a cry, and their arms were around each other. 

“What ... how -” the words were jumbled up as they left him, and his eyes were watering. He blinked them hard, looking back at her to make sure she was really there. 

Then she smiled at him, and it was the same old smile, even with how brown she had gotten from her years in the Phrygian sun. He had barely registered that she looked a little different. He was even taller than her now, when before, they had always been the same height. 

He hugged her hard, and she returned it with an equally fierce affection.   
_Years_. Nothing but paper and ink between them, and how the time had flown.   
Yet it was Polyxena, and he already knew what she would do before she even did it - she drew back and looked at him, then pulled him into another hug. 

“You’ve abandoned your studies and come to stay forever,” he stated, and she laughed at him. 

“If only,” she replied. “But I’d imagine the academy would be rather disappointed.” 

“How did you get here?” he wondered. “Surely not through Troy?” 

She shook her head. “The northern border. It’s a lengthier trip, but -”   
She threw her arms up.   
“I’m here!” 

They could have spent hours talking, he thought. So much to catch up on, and there were the months where he hadn’t been able to write her. 

Eventually, he realized the sun was setting. They were sitting on the floor, her skirts all around them, just like they had as children. 

“Any moment now and Evander is going to come calling,” Polyxena said, glancing at the door. 

“And then we’ll both be scolded and put to bed early,” Patroclus grinned. 

“How is Evander?” Polyxena inquired, getting a curious look on her face. 

“I wish I knew,” Patroclus replied. 

A short silence fell between them, thinking of the home they had both left behind, the war that was threatening to destroy it. 

Polyxena bit her lip. Then her eyes lit up.

“I don’t know about you, but I _refuse_ to be sad today! Where is the banquet? Where are the barrels of wine? Surely this is an occasion to feast! Polyxena and Patroclus, together again!” 

He had forgotten how easy it was to laugh around her. 

“I don’t know about a feast,” he said. “But I can ask Chryseis to put together some bread and cheese.” 

“Let us sample the delicacies of this great nation,” Polyxena agreed.   
She got up and wrung out her skirts, then took his hand.   
“Onwards, comrade.” 

They marched out of the room, side by side.   
\--------------------------------------

“You said you were hungry,” he complained, seeing as he was the only one eating. Polyxena was too busy with Korax in her lap, scratching his ears. She made a face at him. 

“How am I supposed to eat with _this_ face staring up at me?” She held Korax further towards the table. 

“Careful. He’ll gobble everything up before we have a chance to say ‘bad dog’,” Patroclus warned her. 

She sighed and put the dog down, then turned to face him. She was quiet for a moment, simply looking at him with a small smile. 

He was not used to her being this way.

“You’re making me nervous,” he said. “Don’t you have a million stories about Phrygia you couldn’t cram into your letters? Go on.” 

“You’re so different!” she blurted out, out of the blue. 

“What? I don’t think so.” How could he be? All these years apart, and their dynamics were still the same. 

Her smile widened, turning conspiratorial. 

“So you’ve gone and fallen in love with a revolutionary.” 

He almost choked on his bread. “This - this is slander.” 

“Is it everything you dreamed it would be?”   
She raised her eyebrows, winking at him.   
“Do you go on marches, waving flags and yelling for the monarchy to stick it?”

“I … I did not arrive in time for that, no.” 

“Oh, Patroclus,” she sighed and squeezed his hand.   
“My childhood friend has turned into a _rebel_.”

“I don’t know what sort of books you have been reading, Polyxena, but that is not so. Especially coming from a princess!”

“Just you wait until I finish my thesis. Then it’s Princess _Doctor_ Polyxena for you! Or Doctor Princess. Whichever.” 

He snorted so hard he spilled wine all over the table.

“I think father might disown me before that could happen, though,” Polyxena mused.  
“But to be honest, I think he was glad to see me go.” 

She met his eyes.   
“I’m going to have a meeting with your Achilles tomorrow. In fact, we had a nice conversation when I arrived, but he’s a very busy man.” 

“Don’t I know it,” Patroclus agreed. “Wait, a meeting for what?” 

“I’m organizing a war relief for our people in Troy,” she explained.   
Then she looked sheepish.   
“I have to admit that seeing you wasn’t the _only_ reason I agreed to come.”

“Agreed to come?” he frowned. 

Then he realized - she wouldn’t have been able to get here at all without an invitation. He couldn’t hide the smile that came up at the thought of what had transpired.

“You’ll come with me, won’t you?” Polyxena asked. 

“What do you need _me_ there for?” 

“Moral support!”

He rolled his eyes at her. Polyxena was the last person on earth who needed support. She did what she wanted. 

“I’ve never negotiated with a head of state before,” she insisted. 

“Lies! You negotiated with your father.” 

“It doesn’t count when they sired you!” 

He sighed. “Of course I’m going to help. But you should know … he -”

“Despises royalty, yes, yes, I know.”

“Wait a second.”   
A thought had crossed his mind.   
“You’re aware the whole country thinks I’m Paris, aren’t you?” 

Polyxena seemed taken aback for a second, then nodded.   
“Gods, I’d almost forgotten about that. He mentioned you as _Paris_ in the invitation.” 

“So you came here expecting Paris?” 

Polyxena looked sheepish again.   
“... No. I knew it was you.” 

This was what he’d been wondering about.   
“How?” 

She pressed her lips together.   
“Glaucus.” 

He hadn’t expected to be this surprised.   
“Glaucus?” 

He thought about it for a moment.   
“... _You_? You sent Glaucus here with me?”

Polyxena waved it away.   
“I sent Glaucus to keep an eye on my brother. When I heard that Paris was going to _Hellas_ of all places, I thought the whole court had gone senile. What was I supposed to do? I was _sure_ he was going to do something stupid and offensive at some point. And you _know_ father doesn’t tell me anything!”

It suddenly made sense. The other man’s insistence that he come along as a proxy for Troy. Volunteering to become a prisoner. His initial confusion at Patroclus being there.   
He was a _spy_.   
Though … perhaps that was a little extreme, considering he worked for Polyxena. 

“He must have sent you a message right before we left Laconia,” Patroclus concluded.   
“Is he even an exile?” 

Polyxena gave him a look.   
“You know he is. We met in one of the northern border towns when I was there for a symposium, and … we were good friends when we were children. I tried to persuade him to come to Phrygia with me, but he was hell-bent on getting into Hellas. We kept in touch over the years. When I got the news about Paris, I contacted him for help.” 

“So he can be trusted?”

“Of course, silly! I wouldn’t rely on someone who couldn’t.” 

Patroclus rubbed his eyes.   
“I just can’t believe it. All this time …”

“You see? I was always with you,” Polyxena said, earnestly. 

He couldn’t help but smile at her this time.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Achilles had been working so late it was almost midnight when he entered the door. 

“Oof!” he exclaimed, greeted by Patroclus throwing his arms around him. 

“You brought her here,” Patroclus voiced. 

“Well … months and months of you talking about her, I felt as though I knew her already.” 

“Did you get along?” 

He hoped they did. In many ways, Polyxena and Achilles were similar people, and that could sometimes mean a clashing of personalities. 

“Does it matter?” Achilles asked, bringing his palm up and pressing a kiss to it.   
“She loves you, so she must be a decent enough person in my books.” 

Patroclus beamed.   
“She thinks we march in revolt against the monarchy together.” 

“Would you?” Achilles asked, tone teasing, but underneath it was a real question.   
“March at my side in a sea of rebellion?”

“Always,” Patroclus replied.   
“Right beside you, always.” 

It made Achilles smile, despite how tired he looked. 

It was worth it, Patroclus decided. All the exhausting meetings, and learning to maneuver the aristocracy. It was worth it just to see this at the end of the day.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He needn’t have worried. The meeting went as well as it could have gone, considering this was a member of Trojan royalty appealing to an anti-monarchist for contributions to a war relief fund. 

“You must understand I will put my people above all else,” Achilles reasoned.   
“If it becomes disadvantageous for Hellas to support the relief, I reserve the right to withdraw without question.” 

“That is only fair,” Polyxena replied.   
What a picture she was, sitting there and facing Achilles calmly and reasonably. Patroclus had to remind himself this was the same girl who had tried to dissect a frog in the middle of the courtyard, causing a panicked evacuation by screaming noblewomen.   
“I came to Olympia with an understanding. That you are a defender of the people, a leader who looks towards the needs of ordinary men first and foremost. It is that leader I appeal to, who can understand this time of hardship and how to overcome it.”

“What you speak of is something I am entirely familiar with,” Achilles agreed. 

“We have been neighbors over the centuries - this act of goodwill would not go unheeded.” 

“I do have a condition. Paris -” Achilles said, making Patroclus start.   
“Paris will work with you to organize the relief efforts.” 

Polyxena could not help a smile, glancing at Patroclus.   
“Truly?” 

“Who better to act as intermediary than someone we both trust?”

“I …” Patroclus paused, looking at Achilles. “You really want me to do this?” 

Five months of war, and he’d sorrowed over how little he was doing. This could mean … actually _doing_ something to help Troy. 

“You won’t regret this,” Polyxena said, breaking her composure for a second.   
She offered her hand, and Achilles shook it. 

Then she snuck a grin at Patroclus. 

Polyxena and Patroclus, together again, if not in person then in spirit. 

He had never imagined himself as someone intelligent enough to collaborate with her on a project, but now … who could say what he was?   
If these people he cared about could believe in him, then surely he could believe in himself.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He wished she really could have stayed forever. But a week later, and the demands of the academy were calling her back. 

They held on to each other for a long time. 

At least he could finally write to her again, he thought. He saw her wave at Glaucus as the carriage drove away. For once, it did not feel like a goodbye. 

Only a heartfelt _till we meet again_ , for they would, he just knew it.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was the autumnal equinox, where day and night were the same. 

He remembered thinking about it in Elis; how there was balance in the universe. And there was, indeed, because through pain and distress there was hope and succor.   
There would always be men fighting - but there would also be the ones who worked, the unnamed people who never gave up trying to make life bearable in the midst of such destruction. 

A pretty morning it was, with a rosy-pink sky. This time of year, the grapes would be harvested in Elis for the making of the wine. One day, he would see it. An image flashed of his blue ribbon in the tree - a wish that did not seem so out of reach anymore. 

After all, this was the life he had chosen. And as with most lives, it came with its happier moments - he imagined being there again, Agapenor’s family grabbing his hand and leading him over to partake in the grape-stomping. 

He could hear toast crunching, the scent of strawberry jam clouding the air.   
One drop of it on the side of Achilles’s lip. 

Metal clinking against porcelain, the tea being stirred. 

“Pass the honey.” 

He obliged, and handed it over to Achilles.   
Then he got up, balancing the empty dishes in his arms to take to the wash.   
He reached over and thumbed the drop of jam from Achilles’ lip, and kissed that same spot. 

“It’s Patroclus,” he said, right in the other man's ear.   
“My name is Patroclus.”


	20. Chapter 20

Snow in the evening. Something magical about it, the way he would wake up with the world turned white around him. In the middle of the day the sun would reflect against the powdery ground - picturesque and brilliant. And now, towards the beginning of night, it was almost grey-blue; the way the sky loomed so heavily, its clouds gathered in a secret meeting. Winter had never been his favorite, but something had changed that over the years. 

There was a hushed beauty about it, a danger both dreaded and exciting. He opened the window just enough, braving the icy cold - all to catch a snowflake in his hand. _No one exactly like the other_. That piece of knowledge he had been given so long ago, to be held on to close to his heart. Even if he grew old and lost his memory - he would remember, that snowflakes were like fingerprints. Funny though, how one could only survive while fresh and new, while the other held the trace of a person, living or dead. 

He watched the snowflake, perfect in the middle of his palm for a second. And then the heat of his skin took it away. Like a moment in its golden glory, fleetingly savored until time claimed it. 

And how much time he had spent in Hellas. 

So much that he sometimes forgot what it was like in Troy, where the war had raged on for five long years. 

Five, where snow had touched the ground again and again. 

In Hellas, that time had slipped right past him, a dream to be woken up from only to hope it would come to him again. 

He closed the window and leaned his forehead against the glass, watching his breath fog it up. 

Right next to him, Korax sat on the ground, nose propped up on the windowsill, waiting. He waited every night. He was a grown dog, three times the size of the puppy Patroclus had found in his room one afternoon. The years had made him gentle and even-tempered, so much that Patroclus sometimes forgot he was there, only to turn back around with a quickening heartbeat and be relieved when he saw that dark shape, black as crows’ feathers. 

He placed a hand on the dog’s head, finding comfort in the velvety fur. He could imagine what that window looked like every evening, man and dog side by side, always waiting. The blue-grey turned even bluer, until the glass in front of him showed a violet world. And that was when the carriage came into view. 

Korax perked up, tail wagging. Patroclus’ heart jumped, that missing piece in it rattling back into place. For that was what it had felt like, these long weeks. That someone had torn a part of him away and carried it off. 

The carriage pulled up in the driveway, and the door opened. 

He pressed his nose against the glass, watching for the figure to emerge. 

And there he was. 

Off Patroclus went, his feet carrying him on their own accord, rushing down the stairs. He could not describe what kind of joy it was, only that the pressure built and built in him until he burst through that door, running out into the cold, not caring that he wasn’t wrapped warmly. 

He leaped into Achilles’ arms, and heard the man’s laugh, and everything was back into place. 

“You’re home!” he cried, and kissed the cold lips, even as he was starting to shiver from the sudden drop in temperature.

Achilles held him very tight, wrapping his coat around him to keep him warm.   
“Hello, darling,” he said, and the snow was falling rapidly until they could barely see each other. 

They walked inside, trudging through the soft ground, and he wouldn’t let go for a moment. 

Always the same, he thought, eyes traveling over the other’s form. Achilles always looked the same. 

The other man removed his coat, and the warm layers underneath, reaching down to scratch the dog behind the ears.   
\---

“How was it?” Patroclus asked, later on when they had settled down in the drawing room, the fire lit and Achilles’ luggage carried up the stairs.   
“Is Agapenor well?”

“As well as can be,” Achilles replied.   
He didn’t look like he wanted to talk about it much, but that was how it had been over time. The demands of his work chipped away at him slowly, and Patroclus always felt as though he held out his hands for the pieces, scrambling to stick them back into place. 

When Achilles came home from his long trips to the outer regions, it was as though the house in Olympia was a healing spot, where he could shed his worries for the span of a minute. 

In five years Hellas had flourished into the land Achilles had so dreamed it would be; the peasants had grown wealthier, and accumulated property from their noble counterparts. 

Yet, it came with its problems. They never seemed to end.   
While the country had started off divided by bloodline, now there were increasing gaps in the rich and the poor. Achilles worked hard to ensure the property was not monopolized; but there was no stopping wealthy farmers from buying the land they had once been in service to.   
And so he had gone back and forth from Olympia to Elis, recruiting Agapenor to help him settle disputes and redistribute land. 

“Has it been like this all day?” Achilles asked, drawing the curtain back a little to watch the snow outside. The sky was the same violet, made a little red around the edges from the dozens of lampposts. 

“All three weeks,” Patroclus murmured, and laid his cheek against Achilles’ breast. He could smell the valley on him, granted; he had never visited Elis during the winter.   
“Is our waterfall frozen?”

“All turned to ice. I wish you could have seen it,” Achilles replied, planting a kiss on his hair. 

Patroclus had been accompanying Achilles less and less on the trips - due to the increasing demands of the war relief in Troy. What had once been a modest effort between him and Polyxena, was now a nation-wide fund with recruits from all over. 

He was happy to see their project achieving something good. But at the same time, he wondered if he was shirking his responsibility to Hellas, if Achilles had needed him but didn’t want to bring it up. Whenever he mentioned it, the other man would insist it was no matter. “It’s a good thing I went alone,” he would say. “It could get so rowdy, that I’m not sure another voice would have added much to it.”   
\---

He had seen a frozen waterfall once, at the ice festival in Crisa. It was the northernmost region of Hellas, a place where the winters were longer than any other. 

They had gone the second year of the war, when the relief had been struggling and he’d simply needed to get away. 

Upon arriving, it was like a storybook town in the middle of nowhere. Little villages, scattered around the deep woods, fir trees so dense they looked black. There were frozen lakes and ponds that crowds gathered to skate on, and at night, the entire place was lit up so travelers could walk through the streets, ducking into pubs every now and then to escape the cold. 

And it _had_ been cold. He’d stood there in four or five layers, shivering in the snow, only to laugh when he couldn’t hold Achilles’ hand properly in his thick gloves - seeing the other’s cheeks bright pink like a sunburn. 

And then the ice festival had come, and they followed the masses of people out near the woods. 

“It is something to be seen at least once in your life,” Achilles had whispered in his ear, and he hadn’t been sure exactly what to expect. 

Then the sculptures had come into view - the first ones, tall and willowy, dryads and satyrs - 

He had heard his mother’s tree maiden song, seeing those graceful figures and their flowing limbs. 

He didn’t know how it was possible to sculpt something like that from ice. 

Then they had gone further, and the entire replica of a village was awaiting them, houses cut from ice blocks, the roofs lovingly detailed - little children playing, mothers fussing at the windows - and even the household animals, dogs and cats, roosters and ducks. 

It had been like walking through a maze where all life was frozen still - he had been _sure_ they were real people, captured in the storm of winter. 

But they couldn’t be. 

There were skilled artisans who worked their entire lives for this level of craftsmanship, enough to make a person believe that real life could have fallen under an enchantment. 

“How beautiful,” he had gasped.   
And he’d clasped Achilles’ hand tight, taking his glove off to do so; there had been a deep whirl in his chest, like seeing something from long ago that had been lost over the centuries. He just couldn’t stop his imagination from going wild, the stories he had read playing over again - that these were people, and lives, frozen in time and place. 

Achilles had been watching him, taking his ungloved hand and tucking it into his coat.   
“They’re not real,” he’d said, trying to sound reassuring. 

“I know,” Patroclus had replied, but couldn’t get his voice loud enough.   
And he knew. Didn’t he? 

They had been walking for a while, seeing every aspect of the village - it was, after all, a life-size village - and he had stopped in his tracks, seeing two little boys, sitting by a pond. It had reminded him so much of him and Paris that he’d felt something wrench inside him, chill and abrupt. 

It had been the first time he’d thought of the prince in years. 

Patroclus and Paris. Paris and Patroclus. Oftentimes he forgot there had been a Paris in the first place. For now he was both. Patroclus and Paris. 

“Should we go?” Achilles had questioned, looking worried.   
He’d thought about it. Part of him wanted to leave, wanted to forget about the ice people in their frozen life. But he wanted to see more, too. Wanted to experience everything this part of the world had to offer. 

“We’re on an adventure,” he’d said to Achilles, managing a smile. “I don’t want it to end.” 

“I don’t want it to end, either,” Achilles had said back. He’d taken his hand and they’d kept walking, until they were past the village of ice sculptures, and back into the lit up streets that welcomed them.  
\---

He thought of how the ice festival had been like a rain-sun day. A happy-sad song. And how it was stowed away in his heart, to be cherished always. It had made him appreciate life. All its ups and downs, when he and Achilles were as happy and content as they’d been five years ago, and in difficult moments when the country was in turmoil. 

Their worst had been the week they’d returned from Crisa, all the demands of every day returning to them at once. 

It had been the first time he’d made Achilles truly angry - he could remember it so clear in his head. 

It had been like standing close to a flame, and a winter storm at once. Hot and cold, each threatening to overtake each other. 

“Why aren’t you saying anything?” Achilles had asked, when he’d exhausted himself at last. 

Patroclus had been quiet the entire time. 

“What do you want me to say?” 

Achilles had sighed.   
“I don’t know. Demand an apology. Threaten to leave. _Both_. After what I just said to you.”

Patroclus had pressed his lips together.   
“I made you angry.”

“You did.” 

“But you love me still.”

The way Achilles had looked at him, then.

“I do,” the other man had said, softly.

“Anger and happiness. They come and go. And I would rather you be angry with me, and happy with me, than for all that to go away with your love.” 

“That will never happen,” Achilles had said, taking him and pulling him into his arms immediately.   
“ _Never_.” And he’d kissed him, and kissed him.   
“There is no world where that is possible. Do you understand?” 

“Of course I do,” Patroclus had said, tracing his fingers over those lips, running them over the eyelids. 

When Achilles opened his eyes again the heat and the chill was gone. 

And he had committed that look to memory, how it had been in one time and place.   
\---

Now he watched Achilles unpack, following every movement. Relaxed yet efficient, was how Achilles moved.   
Patroclus was bundled up in blankets, because the room was taking a while to warm up, and Korax was at his feet. 

Achilles looked over his shoulder and met his eyes. He didn’t say anything for a long time.   
And sometimes it was like this. No conversation, just the quietness, nothing but each other - it was like a well-known song on the piano that he could play by heart - but the thing about songs, and the thing about people - there was always something he hadn’t quite known before, not even after years of learning it. 

In many ways, these were some of his favorite times. It gave his heart room to settle. 

He slid off the bed and padded barefooted over the floor, gave Achilles a kiss on the back of his neck - and he knew the other man was smiling, even if he couldn’t see. 

“Patroclus.”

The syllables pulled at some invisible string within him. 

“Yes, my love?” he asked, and put his arms around Achilles’ middle. 

The man paused in his unpacking and turned around a little. His eyes flickered back and forth, that dance of thoughts before the words came out.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t make it to the ice festival this year,” he said. He said it so low.

Patroclus did not know how to reply. He should’ve _known_ Achilles remembered that he’d wanted to go. What _didn’t_ the man remember? 

“You said it had to be seen at least once in our lives,” Patroclus started, after a moment.   
“And we’ve seen it. So it’s no matter, is it, love?”

Achilles nodded, but Patroclus could see he wasn’t convinced. He was a man who took on many burdens, and sometimes, what it took was some reminding that they were in this together. 

“You can unpack tomorrow,” Patroclus said, after a while. “You’re tired.”

“I _am_ tired,” Achilles laughed, the sound taking on a cynical tinge.   
“But look what I brought home with me.” He opened another suitcase, filled to the brim with contracts to be reviewed and signed.   
“I thought to come home, to allow my mind to rest. Silly of me. It never ends, does it?” His voice was edging slowly towards the hysterical.

Once, Patroclus would have been bothered by it. He would have taken one look at the suitcase full of paperwork, and pursed his lips in disappointment. But he knew Achilles, knew how alone he truly felt in all this. And he would not let him be alone. 

“Come,” Patroclus said, taking Achilles’ hand and the first pile of papers, leading them into the study.   
“We have all night. It’ll be done before you know it.” 

He heard Achilles sigh, but the man obliged. 

They laid the paperwork carefully over the desk, the system they used to review documents as quickly and efficiently as possible. 

He liked Achilles’ study, the smells all around him. It had become such a familiar room in the years since he’d moved into the main house - the scent of wood from the furniture, the oil from the lamp - even the colors of the carpet, swirling around. 

They read until his eyes started to sting, the lids heavy as weights - and then he closed them, thinking to rest for a while. 

It must have been hours and hours until he woke up again. His head was on Achilles’ shoulder, the lamp was burning out, and the pile of papers was complete and arranged into a neat pile. 

He blinked himself awake, but the arms of sleep were tight around him. He thought Achilles was asleep too, head rested over his.   
“Let’s go to bed,” the man whispered, and yawned. 

He didn’t remember getting up and walking to their room, but the pillows were soft beneath him, and Achilles was warm up against him, and it was a feeling he treasured nonetheless.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There were two kitchens in the main house, one connected to the small sunroom that he and Achilles had always used for breakfast, another for the more elaborate meals throughout the day. It was the latter that Patroclus spent most nights in, especially when Achilles was busy in his study or away on a trip. 

The kitchen was always well-lit, and fairly empty once the cooks and servants had gone off the clock for the night. 

But he could still smell the dishes served from before, the scent of herbs and spices and the baking of fresh bread. 

Sometimes cats came to the back door to beg for scraps, and he could hear them yowling, echoing all the way down the road.

It was funny how Achilles knew the names of every single staff member in the house, but never came here, he mused. The man insisted on taking meals in the proper rooms. 

He thought it was perhaps Achilles’ way of forgetting the impoverished life he’d come from. All these years, and he was still tightlipped about his childhood. 

Perhaps House Pelides’ opulence was made to erase painful memories of Nowhere, Phthia. 

He saw Chryseis outside the window, checking off inventory, and waved at her. She had been promoted to head housekeeper several years ago, and was so busy that they could never talk as much as they used to - although they did try. 

He could hear voices inside the kitchen, some sort of bickering going on, and knew Glaucus and Diomedes were already there for their weekly gathering. The two had slowly rekindled their friendship as they saw each other more often in Olympia, and were now practically inseparable. 

“That is cheating!” Glaucus exclaimed. 

He and Diomedes were engaged in some sort of dice game, with bottles of spices and condiments used as the players. 

“ _That_ is strategy,” Diomedes corrected. “Some of us know how to use our brains, Glaucus.” 

“I don’t play this game to use my brain, I play it for fun,” Glaucus objected, reached out, and toppled over Diomedes’ bottle of dill. 

“And he wonders why he went broke,” Diomedes sighed, raising his eyebrows at Patroclus in greeting. 

“He’s back already, huh?” Glaucus questioned, looking at Patroclus and pouring him a glass of brandy. 

“He’s back,” Patroclus confirmed. 

Diomedes pursed his lips and said nothing.   
He and Achilles had a rather testy relationship that Patroclus had never been able to figure out over the years. They obviously cared about each other, but Patroclus had a feeling there were unspoken disagreements neither wanted to bring up. In fact, he still wasn’t sure he really knew Diomedes, even if he liked the man and saw him every time he was in Olympia. 

“Well, that will curb some of the gossip at least,” Glaucus remarked.   
“So many trips to Elis, there is talk that he isn’t really able to control all the land redistribution that’s happening among the peasants.”   
Glaucus had been serving as Patroclus’ eyes and ears to the aristocracy in Olympia. 

“That’s because he isn’t,” Diomedes grunted. 

“But -” Patroclus protested, wanting to defend Achilles as he always did. 

Diomedes looked him in the eye.   
“That is the problem with giving land back to the people. You might find that when you try to divide it among them equally, there will always be ones who won’t be satisfied. After all, is that not the way of men? Nobility or peasantry, it does not matter - for the true divider is ambition and greed.” 

It was hard to argue with that. Patroclus frowned.   
“But Achilles doesn’t think so. He drives himself to exhaustion trying to keep control of it.” 

Diomedes shrugged.   
“That is Achilles’ way. He wants to be seen as the righteous, the one who returned what belonged to the people. But when it goes wrong, he does not know how to fix it. How can you fix mistakes when you don’t know what the mistakes were in the first place?” 

And there it was. Yet however severe Diomedes' criticisms of Achilles were, Patroclus couldn’t deny that they were not unfounded. 

“But he won’t listen,” he replied, softly.   
“And how do you change someone’s mind when it is what they believe in so fiercely?” 

“You can’t,” Diomedes said. He did look regretful, then.   
“I have tried many times - but I’m afraid we can do nothing but stand by to catch the worst of it if it happens. He’s lucky to have you - and he has me, and even this one, however useless he is -” Diomedes nudged Glaucus with his elbow. 

“Hey!” Glaucus objected.

“Achilles believes he has to do everything on his own,” Diomedes continued.   
“But no leader ever accomplished anything without support. And we are his support, whether he likes it or not.” 

“Perhaps we’re wrong,” Patroclus offered, even if it sounded unlikely.   
“Perhaps he really will achieve everything he wanted, on his own terms, and we are too blind to see it now.” 

“That is a possibility,” Diomedes allowed.   
“We are not politicians. We do not have a people to lead. And I do hope it is true.”

“For the sake of Hellas,” Glaucus agreed.   
He raised his glass of brandy.   
“To our home.” 

And wasn’t it true? Hellas wasn’t just a home away from home anymore, a refuge in the rain. It was the place where Patroclus’ heart and soul rested, the place he would fight for, that he had promised to help better for the sake of the people he loved. 

“To our home,” he said, and clinked glasses with the others.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Up the stairs he went, Korax at his heels. They were fresh from a walk, and he knew he had to open a window to let out the stink of snow-covered dog. 

He saw the door to the main meeting room open, one of the secretaries sliding out.

He paused on the steps and called down to the secretary.   
“Hey Meriones -” 

Meriones looked up. “They’re still in there!” he whispered.   
Then he looked behind him, as though not sure if he should speak up. “It’s not going well.” 

“Which one is this again?” 

“Lord Pedasus,” Meriones replied. 

The name sounded familiar. He would have to ask Achilles about it later. 

It had to be an important meeting if Achilles was holding it at House Pelides instead of the newly refurbished conference hall at the heart of the city. 

“You need a bath, Korax,” he said, when they were both upstairs.   
“No, don’t look at me like that. You _know_ you do.”  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Achilles was furious. 

Three fruitless hours trying to reach a compromise with a distant lord, and it had come to nothing.   
In the days of the Atreidae, the nobility had been given leave to sell their land to foreign nations. This had become even more popular during the revolution, when they had needed to fund armies in contribution to the palace. 

Achilles was staunchly against this. He believed that the land belonged to Hellas, and it was not right for foreign kingdoms to claim property that was not theirs, whether there had been legal contracts or not. As a result, he had executed a new law where landowners were banned from selling their property to foreign powers. 

“How can we call ourselves a free Hellas if we are owned by other nations?” he demanded. 

He had been pacing the room for the past half hour; Patroclus was seated in a chair, waiting for him to air out his grievances. 

“It is unpatriotic. It is treachery.” 

“And we know traitors are notorious for coming willingly to the head of state,” Patroclus tried to joke, but these days, Achilles was not so easily humored. 

“He is deliberately going against the law,” Achilles fumed. 

“Did you ask for a reason?” Patroclus asked. 

There had to be one. Not all of the aristocracy did what they did because they were against Achilles’ rule. Some were even rather neutral towards him, like Thrasymedes. Others were simply too set in their ways, the old traditions of feudalism that had been in place for centuries. 

“A reason,” Achilles spat. “I asked for _many_. Like a beggar, when he should have been surrendering those lands from the beginning -”

“Perhaps it’s not that easy,” Patroclus cut in. “What if he can’t afford to buy back his lands?” 

“That would be an excuse if I hadn’t offered a generous stipend -”

“Calm down, love,” Patroclus said, getting up and placing a hand on Achilles’ shoulder. 

A vein had broken out on Achilles’ forehead, and once he started getting worked up, it was hard for him to stop. There were so many frustrations that had collected over the years, that Achilles had merely bottled up at the beginning of his rule, a young visionary who was confident he could change everything with willful hard work. 

Now they threatened to boil over, and Patroclus was often afraid Achilles would wind up making himself ill or losing control. He could be _so_ composed and withdrawn when the situation called for it, but behind closed doors there was a helpless rage underneath born from every failure he had taken upon himself as a personal responsibility. 

This was the nature of the man. He was not just a leader with a vision, but one who saw Hellas as an extension of himself - and everything that went wrong, was a blow to his own spirit. 

“Calm down,” Patroclus said, feeling Achilles exhale and relax at his touch.   
“Nothing good will come of allowing this to get under your skin.”

He sensed Achilles’ hand over his now, the deep intakes and outtakes of breath. 

“There is nothing I despise more - than these _lords_ who believe they can keep on taking. Have they not stolen enough from good Hellenes? It makes my blood _boil_.” Achilles’ teeth were gritted, his voice coming out low. This was not going to be something he would let go of easily, Patroclus knew. 

“I know,” Patroclus said. “I know. But you will keep trying. And trying. And eventually, he will have to listen.” 

He watched Achilles close his eyes, and open them again, the anger gone. 

“Don’t you always?” 

Achilles managed a small smile, then. He held Patroclus’ hand in the crook of his arm, as he always did. 

“What would I do without you?” The question was softly spoken, but his eyes roamed over Patroclus, searching. 

Patroclus held him even tighter. He would _not_ let him be alone. 

“I don’t think that’s something you have to imagine for now,” he voiced, and finally, _finally_ , there came Achilles’ laugh.   
\---

When they sat together watching the last of the snow drift down, Achilles’ fingers found his. 

“Patroclus - I _promise_ we’ll make it to Crisa again.”

He felt his chest clench - how could he get through to the other man? It didn’t _matter_ to him where they went. These instances together, where there was nothing to do but sit quietly, his side pressed up against Achilles’, hearing the other’s feet tapping against the floor -they were all that really mattered. 

Someone to brave the silences together. 

“You know I don’t care,” he said. “You don’t have to promise.” 

Achilles turned to him, looking firm.   
“But you _do_ care. You loved those ice sculptures. I said I would take you to see them again, and I let you down.”

“You’ve never let me down,” Patroclus replied, staring hard at Achilles. 

“I promise,” Achilles said again. 

Patroclus could do nothing but laugh, shaking his head and burying it in the place where Achilles’ neck met his shoulder. There was no changing the man’s mind when he’d made it up.

“If you say so.” 

Snowflakes, no one like the other. Days, each one so different. He would have once given everything for another day in Hellas, another day with Achilles - and that hadn’t changed.


	21. Chapter 21

That bluejay was flitting onto the bushes outside again. He watched it out of the corner of his eye, wondering if it was the same one he had seen again and again. It had to be. How long did bluejays live? 

Its blue feathers were such a contrast to the red of the hawthorn berries, and -

He heard the sound of crunching toast. Wordlessly, he picked up the jar of honey and handed it to Achilles, not even having to be asked. Some rhythms could be memorized. 

Metal against porcelain, the swish and swirl of tea being stirred. All his favorite sounds.

It was so strange, he thought. He never got tired of watching Achilles eat, even when he knew exactly what the man would do next. 

One second, two - _and he would want another piece of toast_. 

Achilles picked up another piece of toast. 

_Then perhaps he would frown at it, deciding if he was perhaps too full._

Achilles frowned at the piece of toast, weighing if he really wanted it or not. 

_Then he would take a bite, and decide he needed butter and jam after all._

Achilles took a bite, paused, and took hold of the butter knife. He spread on the butter, making loud sounds as the metal scraped against the bread. Then his hand hovered over the row of jars in front of him, fruit preserves, jellies and jams. 

_Strawberry._

Achilles dipped his knife in the strawberry. Then he munched away at his toast; it was gone in five seconds. 

Patroclus smiled. How he loved him, he did, even in the mundane; goings-on in life that were forgotten in the beat of a bluejay’s wing, yet they were most precious to him. 

He was still watching Achilles when the man abruptly got up, abandoning his tea. He planted a kiss on Patroclus’ head, gathering up his papers. 

“So soon?” Patroclus asked, surprised. 

“I’ll see you tonight,” Achilles replied, and was gone without a trace, save for his half-empty cup and the crumbs on his plate. 

Underneath the table, Korax whined. Achilles did not like having the dog so close to the place where they ate, but over the years he had given in. They picked their battles, after all. 

Patroclus could do nothing but laugh to himself, reaching under the table to toss Korax a piece of sausage. At least the mornings and nights still belonged to them.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As harsh as Hellene winters were, once they gave way to springtime - it was _really_ springtime. The season when Patroclus had arrived here, the season that had made him fall in love with the country. 

He had gotten a letter from Polyxena thanking him for the most recent supplies in Troy. 

_I am up to my knees in it_ , she had written. _It is becoming more difficult to arrange appropriate courier services from Phrygia to Troy. But good work, comrade - and godspeed._

He was so proud of her. She’d had to delay the completion of her doctorate because of the time-consuming nature of the war relief effort. But at long last, she had succeeded. 

He’d hung on to every word of the last letter she had sent him, detailed descriptions of the ceremony, her new responsibilities as a member of the academy. And her new position as a professor at the most prestigious institution in Phrygia, where she could conduct research as well as teach. 

She truly was a changeling, he thought; taking everything she’d been born with and transforming it into the life she wanted for herself. He could take a lesson or two from her.  
\---

There were new flower patches outside in the garden, and he loved strolling around and seeing the colors bloom. He bent over the bushes to pick the berries he’d been eyeing all morning. 

A window flew open.

“Don’t think I don’t see you doing that, Paris!” the cook yelled indignantly. 

“Sorry, cook,” Patroclus said, stepping away from the bushes and biting his lip to stop himself from laughing. 

“No dessert for you!” 

But he’d gotten to know the kitchen staff so well, and he knew the cook always gave him an extra helping at dinner. He backed away, pretending to be mollified, and watched the window slam shut; the cook turning away with an amused look on his otherwise craggy face. 

He saw the bluejay alight on the bushes again. “At least he doesn’t chase _you_ away,” he said. 

He went inside to get Korax. The crows would be out at this time of year, and he knew the dog would not want to miss it.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It wasn’t quite hot outside yet, and he still liked sitting in the bathtub with warm water up to his nose. The heat relaxed his muscles, made his skin turn pink. He looked at his fingers, wrinkled like prunes. 

Chryseis had used to knock on the door, asking if he was done yet. Sometimes he missed that. There was a lot more privacy in the main house. The servants never went near Achilles’ quarters, in fear of disturbing him. 

Sitting here in the bathroom, the sunlight reflecting off the white marble tiles - he realized he’d gotten used to it. No bustling servants, no voices carrying. 

It could be peaceful, and it could be lonely. Once he withdrew to their rooms, it would be nothing but still silence. 

He could have fallen asleep, with the water lapping at his skin like that in such a hypnotizing way. But he made himself open his eyes and get up. 

Now that the winter was over, at least it wasn’t freezing cold as soon as his feet touched the ground. He wrapped a towel around himself and bent over to wring the water from his hair - then caught sight of Achilles in the doorway. 

He never did hear the other man coming up. 

“Look at you,” he said, for Achilles was dressed in full statesman’s attire, ready to depart for the conference hall downtown. 

“Dressed to the nines for an afternoon of boredom,” Achilles agreed. 

Patroclus turned around to get his things from the sink - and met Achilles’ eyes in the mirror. They stood there, for a moment. 

He could see Achilles’ reflection looking right at him - the two of them, side by side. 

It wasn’t something he’d wondered at much before. But seeing them now, within the same frame - had it always been meant to happen this way? It was hard to imagine anything else. He wished there was some invention that could capture the both of them together. 

For how hard it was, to store it away in his head, when Achilles’ reflection kept moving, growing larger and larger until it was right behind his, the arms wrapping around him, the face leaning on his shoulder, mouth pressed against it. 

Achilles’ hands wandered down to the towel around his waist and loosened it, and he laughed, slapping it away. 

“You have a meeting in less than a half hour!” 

He tried to pull away, not wanting the water from the bath to get all over Achilles’ impeccable clothes - but the other man only held him tighter. 

He gave up, locking gazes with Achilles’ reflection again. 

“Won’t you marry me?” Achilles asked, and rested his chin on Patroclus’ shoulder once more. 

Patroclus could not stop himself from sighing. One year after another. He’d lost track of the times Achilles had asked. 

“You know the answer to that, Achilles,” he said, as always. 

And Achilles did. But by Hestia, it never stopped him from asking, especially out of the blue like this. Patroclus would have given anything to know what exactly went through the man’s head at these times. 

“I don’t think I do anymore,” Achilles replied. 

He finally turned Patroclus around so they were face to face, dripping wet skin against priceless fabric. 

“You’ll get your suit wet,” Patroclus complained, but Achilles took his chin and lifted it until they were eye to eye. 

“No. I want to know if it’s changed.” 

There was no derailing this _stubborn_ man once he had set his mind on something. Patroclus knew he had to answer. 

He looked back at Achilles. 

“I won’t.” 

“Why not?” 

Infuriating. The man was infuriating, but _gods_ , he wished he had another answer. He pressed his lips together hard, studying Achilles’ face, reaching up one hand to trace his cheek.

“Because. You would be married to Paris of Troy. Not me, Patroclus.” 

And he couldn’t bear it if it happened. The very thought of it.  
He could be Paris for Achilles, he could. He could be Paris for the country.  
But deep down, at the very heart of him, was Patroclus, whom he had given so completely to Achilles. Whom he had entrusted him with. 

Achilles exhaled hard, turning his face away.  
“It’s just a _name_ on a piece of _paper_.”

“But it means something to me.” 

He saw Achilles close his eyes, the turn of his cheek as he bit the inside in dissatisfaction. He touched that same place, smoothing it out under his fingertips. He hated seeing Achilles upset - but this, he would not sway from. 

“It does not mean I love you any less.” 

Achilles nodded slowly. He opened his eyes again, and looked at Patroclus for a long time. The subject was let go, but knowing Achilles - it would not be the last time it was brought up. 

“You’re going to be late,” Patroclus reminded him, gently. 

“Darling, what do you expect me to do? You won’t marry me. So I just have to stand here and take you in for a little while more.” Achilles was very serious as he said this, but it made Patroclus laugh nonetheless. 

“You’re ridiculous,” he chided, and wound his arms around Achilles’ neck to kiss him. 

“As long as it keeps you by my side.” 

“You don’t need a piece of paper for that.”  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

It wasn’t often that he ventured out into the city by himself - it was just more enjoyable with Achilles, especially in the early days when the man had been eager to show Patroclus everything he loved about Olympia. But all this time had given Patroclus leave to form his own opinions. Now he had _his_ favorite streets, his own memories in the great capital of Hellas. 

He passed by the Olympia Opera House, its gleaming dome and winged statues. There was a certain giddiness every time he saw it, images of performances he had loved, summer after summer. 

His favorites were the rows of shops, lively during the day - but he knew them better at night. He and Achilles had snuck out together once, strolling through the streets hand in hand. It had been so still, and silent, everybody having gone home hours ago. All the shops had been closed, and there was a certain eeriness to it - as ordinary as they looked, they could very well hide some great secret; just like Hestia’s temple underneath the ground. 

Back then, there had been no lampposts in downtown streets. They had wandered around in the dark, finding their way around each corner, holding on so tight so as not to lose each other. There had been an element of danger, along with the fun. 

It was so different now. Achilles had changed so much in Olympia. There was one thing the aristocracy could not deny him, that he had really brought about the first step towards modernizing the nation. There was even talk of a university in Olympia being built in the coming years - a place where Hellenes from all over the country would be welcome. 

Mapping the planets, Patroclus thought, a smile reaching his face. 

The carriage slowed down, and he peered out the window to take a look. There were several rows of soldiers marching, in their red insignia. Heavily armed, yet the weapons were much more up to date than they had been when he’d first arrived. That was another change Achilles had made that maintained the aristocracy’s respect. The strengthening of the army, over the years, until it was a military force to be reckoned with. 

Patroclus had always felt a little uneasy around the army. They were not at all like soldiers in Troy, unruly and untrained, outfitted poorly and relying on adrenaline and youthful vigor to join the fight. These men were highly professional, a well-oiled machine with the kind of rigid discipline Achilles himself expected from them. 

He sat back in his seat, trying to relax, even as the rows of soldiers parted down the middle to make way for his carriage. One of the drill sergeants barked an order, and the entire line saluted, keeping their flawless postures until the carriage was well out of sight. 

He breathed a sigh of relief when it was over. A poor soldier indeed, he would have made.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Glaucus and Diomedes were still engaged in the spices and condiments game when he arrived for their weekly meet-up. 

“Here, we’ll teach you how to play it,” Diomedes said.  
He picked up a bottle of cinnamon sticks.  
“This is your cinnamon. You must protect it at all costs. The only ones who can capture the cinnamon are the dill and the nutmeg. Understand?” 

“Uh …” Patroclus wavered. 

“I thought the only ones who can capture the cinnamon are the dill, the nutmeg, and the mint!” Glaucus objected. 

“Don’t confuse him,” Diomedes admonished.  
He picked up the dice.  
“Even numbers are for sweet spices. Odd numbers are for savory. So if I roll and get …” 

They watched the dice rolling across the table, until it landed on the number four.  
“If I get four, I can make my cinnamon, allspice, nutmeg, or paprika move four places. But since I must protect my cinnamon, I’m not going to move it just yet. I’ll pick paprika instead, as it’s a more disposable player.”  
Diomedes moved the paprika four spaces, and knocked Glaucus’ bottle of mustard out of the way. 

“Aww!” Glaucus exclaimed. “My mustard was in such a good spot!” 

“Always think ahead on what your opponent will do,” Diomedes told Patroclus, looking deadly serious while showing him the bottle of paprika.  
“Now, if your cinnamon is captured, you’re at risk of losing the game. But first you must eliminate all other players, to get to the other side of the board. And most importantly -”  
He stared at Patroclus.  
“Never underestimate the cayenne pepper.” 

“It will creep up on you,” Glaucus confirmed. 

Patroclus wasn’t sure if they were joking or not. 

“... This is very … interesting. What do you get if you win?” he asked uncertainly. 

“The knowledge of absolute victory,” Diomedes replied, firmly. 

“... That’s because I’m not allowed to gamble anymore,” Glaucus added, in a small voice. 

“And what is this game called?” 

Glaucus and Diomedes looked at each other. 

“Please Don’t Take My Cinnamon,” Glaucus replied. 

Diomedes glared at him.  
“We had a chance to give it a glorious name of intrigue, cunning, and betrayal, and you _name it_ -” 

“Please Don’t Take My Cinnamon!” Glaucus said again, grinning. “It’s what I yell out the most when Diomedes is playing with me.” 

“And he wonders why he’s still unmarried,” Diomedes sighed, raising his eyebrows at Patroclus. 

“Look who’s talking!” Glaucus lashed back. “Until you have a _wife_ to show me, I don’t think you should be lecturing -” 

“Excuse me, but I am unmarried by _choice_. Unlike you, who couldn’t land a woman in a hundred years -” 

Patroclus sat back, rearranging the spices with a sigh. All this bickering again.  
No wonder the cook was always so grumpy in the morning, considering the mess that had to be made every time Glaucus and Diomedes decided to have a game of Please Don’t Take My Cinnamon. 

“To be fair,” Glaucus said, sidling up to Patroclus once Diomedes had left.  
“He really _is_ popular with the ladies. But don’t tell him I said that.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Patroclus laughed.  
He thought about it for a minute.  
“Say, Glaucus.” 

“Hmm?” 

“Do you _want_ to get married?” 

Glaucus squinted at him, his young face scrunched up.  
“Are we still talking about me?” 

Patroclus rolled his eyes. 

Glaucus sighed. “I don’t know. I probably would have already, if I were still an aristocrat in Troy and my father was still alive to arrange something. But who would want me now? No country, no money, no education.” 

“I don’t think that’s true, Glaucus,” Patroclus said, because he really didn’t.  
Glaucus was good-hearted and far more sharp-minded than he initially seemed. Sure, he was a rather silly person, but that wasn’t a bad thing for the right one. In fact, Patroclus often wondered what it would be like without the other man’s friendship - without someone to cheer him up and lighten his days when the loneliness of not having Achilles around caught up to him. 

“Come on,” Patroclus said. “Let’s have a round of Please Don’t Take My Cinnamon, shall we?” 

Glaucus lit up at the idea. “Oooh, you have no idea what you’re in for, Patroclus!”  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

He found Korax blocking the entire doorway with his dog frame, and had to step over him to get into the room. It was like stepping over a rolled-up carpet around a large stone, that just so happened to breathe. 

The room was very dark, save for the lone lamp flickering on the table, where Achilles was already halfway done packing his suitcase. 

“When will you be back?” Patroclus asked, throwing himself onto the bed and bundling up in the blankets. Without the fireplace going, it could still be a little cold in spring. 

“It won’t be long,” Achilles murmured, too engrossed in his packing. “I’ll send a message when I know for sure.” 

Patroclus nodded, not saying anything. He hated not knowing. 

“Korax will miss you,” he said. It was partially true. Sometimes he thought Korax loved Achilles the most. 

Achilles cracked a smile, then, stark on his otherwise unreadable face. He threw a glance at Patroclus.  
“Only Korax, hmm?” 

“Yes. Only Korax.” 

The blankets were over his head now, and he didn’t hear Achilles approaching him until the man lifted him off the bed. He let out a surprised yell, then started to laugh when Achilles had trouble pulling the covers away from him. 

“Well, that’s a pity,” Achilles said, and there was his face, poking through a gap in the fabric. He placed a kiss on Patroclus’ stomach, then scrambled around to find his face, his lips meeting any bare skin he encountered. 

“Stop! _Stop_!” Patroclus yelled, because he was tangled up and Achilles was only making it worse. Korax got up from his spot and padded over to them in concern, his nose poking over the edge of the bed. 

“Out,” Achilles ordered, and whistled; and the dog hesitantly turned to leave, looking back hopefully as though they would change their minds. 

“So many layers,” Achilles said, peeling back the blanket inch by inch.  
“How am I supposed to get to you?” 

Patroclus could tell his mood had shifted drastically, when there must have been so much on his mind before. 

“If you weren’t lying right on top of the covers I could get out,” Patroclus grumbled. “You’ve trapped me.” 

“Perhaps that was my intention all along,” Achilles teased, finding Patroclus’ hand and tugging it out gently. He kissed each fingertip, then sucked one finger into his mouth. 

“I …” Patroclus’ words died down. He struggled to get out of the covers, wiggling until they fell away. 

And then he was pressed hard against Achilles, a mess of open-mouthed kisses and harsh breathing, the race to get their clothes off. 

He would never get tired of this, he thought. The feel of the other man’s mouth over every bit of skin, the way Achilles’ hair swept over him as he kissed his way down. 

Strange, how it was such a familiar feeling, the sensations well-known; yet it was new every time, leaving him out of breath.  
\--- 

Achilles’ suitcase was left open on the table until the lamp burned out.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

It was still dark when he felt the bed shift around him. One of his arms was hanging off the edge and he felt Achilles take it gently, placing it next to him.  
A hand trailed up his neck, stroking the place where the cut had been so long ago now. He waited for it - 

The press of lips against his skin, soft and inviting. 

“I’m going now.” He needn’t have said it, for Patroclus knew it by heart. Even so, the sound of his voice was like falling into a deep embrace. 

“Mm.” 

Nothing could make Patroclus open his eyes at this ungodly hour, but he could smell Achilles’ scent, and feel the warmth of his touch even after it had left him. 

There was a pause, and he wondered why Achilles lingered. Usually there would be a second kiss, and then the other man would be gone while he fell back asleep. 

“Patroclus.” 

“Hmm?” 

Another pause. 

“I love you.” 

“L’v’y’too,” he mumbled, rolled over and buried his face in the pillow. 

There was no movement, and he almost lamented not getting his second kiss; but then he drifted off, and he wasn’t sure if he had dreamed it or not, because when he woke up Achilles was gone.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

In the weeks that followed, he was unusually wistful. He knew the spring festival in Elis had come and gone - and he had made Achilles promise to bring him back a blue ribbon. He made the same wish every year. And so far, it had been granted. It was almost a childish compulsion, that he had to keep making the wish for it to keep coming true. 

Elis was still his favorite place in all Hellas. In fact, he’d told himself rather sternly that he _would_ go the next time Achilles went. It had been too long since he’d seen Agapenor and his family, and the war relief could wait for a little while, couldn’t it? 

But then all the inventories and the shipments and the costs added up in his mind again, all that he would miss if he wasn’t there to take charge of it. He didn’t want to let Polyxena down, of all things. 

He could ask Glaucus. His friend had been a huge help getting the relief started. But he didn’t want to burden the other man, and so he was left with the same feeling and no answer for it. 

Longing for Elis, and needing to stay in Olympia to keep things running. 

“I _can_ take charge for a few weeks,” Glaucus insisted, when he came over for a visit. 

“But it’s so much -” 

“I can do it!” Glaucus exclaimed, throwing up an arm.  
“Go on to lovely Elis, and drink their wine for me, because I’ve decided to quit drinking you see -” 

“... Right,” Patroclus said, skeptically, because Glaucus had made this announcement at least three times, all to no avail. 

“This time, for good!” 

Glaucus’ interpretation of “for good” usually meant three to four weeks before he gave up and downed an entire cellar. He had made a real dent in the kitchen’s wine collection when he’d been staying there as a guest. 

“Are you staying tonight?” Patroclus inquired. “I can have Chryseis make up a room for you in the main house.” 

“Oh, I couldn’t,” the other man replied sheepishly, but that was Glaucus-speak for yes.  
“And have her make that soup I like -” 

“It upsets your stomach.” 

“It’s my favorite!” 

Patroclus shook his head, but it really would be nice to have someone in the house. Glaucus was an entertaining guest even when Diomedes wasn’t around - _especially_ when Diomedes wasn’t around to keep an eye on him. 

He’d once climbed all the way up to the roof during a sleepwalking episode - a condition Patroclus had only found out about when there was no one around to help him. What followed was a night of anxious watching, and then a call for the guards stationed nearby to get the sleeping Glaucus off the roof. 

Suffice to say, whenever Glaucus stayed over, there were additional guards posted around the compound. But company was company.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

They’d had such a hearty dinner that he felt he had to lie down immediately.  
Afterwards, him, Glaucus, and Chryseis had played cards.  
And then they’d gone into the ballroom so he could play them songs. He was a decent pianist now, still shaky and hesitant, but now there were pieces he knew well. 

He didn’t remember which songs he played them. The flying song Achilles liked was too difficult for him, but there was another one from an opera that was simple enough, and the notes went stiff and shrill in a staccato … 

It was rather like a knocking sound. His fingers moved on their own accord, even as he lay in bed, trying to sleep off the night. 

Knock, knock, knock. 

Sharp raps on the door. That was what those notes were like. 

He rolled over in bed and pulled the covers with him, having to drag a little because Korax was sitting on them. He let Korax sleep in the room when Achilles wasn’t there. The sound of the dog’s snoring calmed him down. 

Then that wet nose was on his palm, sniffing and licking, trying to wake him up. 

“Mmph. Go to sleep, boy.” 

He heard the dog padding up to the door, claws scratching against the wood, wanting to be let out. 

“You _can’t_ want to go out at this time of night.” 

It had to be the middle of the night. He sat up reluctantly and peered at the window, covered in drapes. It was very dark outside. 

And he must have been dreaming, dreaming of that song, but he could still hear it now … 

He sat up straighter. 

There was someone knocking on the door downstairs. 

He sighed. It had to be Glaucus, sleepwalking again. Although, Glaucus didn’t tend to do things that made a lot of noise during his episodes. 

The knocking continued, and Korax started to whine, letting out a sharp bark. 

Korax almost never barked. It made a chill go down Patroclus’ spine, and he slid off the bed, alert. 

“Easy, boy,” he said, placing one hand on Korax’s head and opening the door.  
“A messenger, perhaps.” 

He fumbled around for a lamp and a match, then made his way downstairs. He was glad the dog was right at his heels, because his heartbeat was starting to quicken, and he didn’t know why. 

The knocking was growing louder, a frantic pounding on the door now. 

Along the way, he stumbled right into Glaucus. 

“What’s going on?” the other man asked, rubbing his eyes. 

“I don’t know,” Patroclus replied, softly. He walked over to the front door as steadily as he could. 

“Um, Patroclus? Should we get someone …?” 

Patroclus stared at the door, where the noise had died down. Perhaps the person was gone, whoever they were. His hand shook a little where he held the lamp. 

“It’s alright. We’re well protected. I’m just going to see who it is.” 

He opened the door slowly, hearing Glaucus shuffling over behind him. It was so safe on House Pelides’ grounds that they didn’t even bother locking the door at night. 

“What …” 

He stood and stared, feeling confused. 

The lamplight just about reached the front steps, and he could see a woman standing there. 

He thought he was imagining her for a second, the shadows intertwining with her dark clothes. 

“Who is that?” Glaucus whispered in his ear, and he knew it wasn’t a hallucination. 

The woman approached them, and he held up the lamp to see her better. 

“Can I help you?” he asked, still puzzled. 

“Yes,” she replied, and her voice wavered.  
Then she squared her shoulders, standing a little straighter.  
“I’m looking for my father.” 

“... Pardon?” Patroclus added. This was doing nothing to resolve his confusion. 

The lamplight was hitting her features now, and he thought she seemed a little familiar. 

“I want to know where my father is,” the woman said again. 

“I …” Patroclus frowned. “I don’t think you have the right place.” 

This seemed to ignite something in her. She went up to him, and grabbed him by the arms. 

“Hey, let go of him!” Glaucus yelled. 

“Where has he taken my father?” she screamed, shaking Patroclus hard. 

“ _Who_? Who’s taken your father?” 

He almost dropped the lamp, but for a second, it shone right in her face. He almost didn’t believe it. The name rolled around in his mouth, but it couldn’t be, it had been so long ago … 

“Guards!” Glaucus called, as a group of them came sprinting up to the house out of nowhere. “Help us!” 

“Where is my _father_?!” the woman kept screaming, so much that she was getting hysterical. 

The guards reached them and wrenched her away from Patroclus, dragging her down the steps. 

“Are you hurt, sir?” one of them asked, placing a hand in concern on Patroclus’ shoulder. 

“No, I - wait! _Wait_!” He ran out onto the steps after her, but was held back by the guard. 

“Take her away,” the guard said. “She is no danger to you any longer, sir.” 

“Briseis!” Patroclus cried, and her head snapped up to look at him.  
“Wait, don’t take her -” 

But his pleas went unheeded as Briseis of Pedasus was captured in front of his very eyes, and he could not stop that dreadful feeling, that something was very wrong. 

“Oh, thank the gods we’re alright,” Glaucus moaned, and hugged him tight. 


	22. Chapter 22

He had been tossing and turning the whole night, unable to get to sleep. At long last, the sun was shining right in his face, and he had not managed to get any rest at all. 

He just couldn’t get it out of his head. Briseis’ face in the lamplight, the way she had held onto him so tight. The desperation in her voice, in her eyes. He had tried to think back to the night he had met her; it was hard to believe it was the same person. That lively girl, who had shown him her shoes to reassure him she didn’t mind him stepping on her feet. He’d tried to remember her father - could almost picture the man’s face. 

Nearly three months ago, Lord Pedasus had been in the house. It was a meeting about some land, he remembered. Achilles hadn’t been happy about it. But then they’d let it go and … he couldn’t remember much more than that. 

He’d asked the guards to let her go. But she had broken the law, sneaking into the compound and trespassing on privately owned territory - the territory of Hellas’ head of state, no less; and now was facing serious repercussions. Patroclus had no idea where she had been taken. 

“Are you sure you want to know?” Glaucus had asked, when it was brought up that they should locate her whereabouts.   
“It’s over and done with. They’ll probably question her and give her a fine, and that’ll be that. Unless she’s a raving lunatic, which now that I think of it she probably was …”

“Glaucus,” Patroclus had insisted, looking his friend in the eye. 

Glaucus had sighed. “It will come to nothing. You don’t even know her father.”

“I’ve met her before. I’ve met her father. If something is wrong, I need to know what it is.”

He wasn’t sure _what_ could possibly be wrong, but there were so many unanswered questions and he had gotten nowhere. 

“Alright,” Glaucus had said, after a minute. “I’ll see what I can find out. It’s fairly difficult to inquire about prisoners when you’re not part of the city police, but I’ll try.” 

Patroclus had been grateful for it. He knew Glaucus had been frightened, and wasn’t inclined to revisit that time, but was still willing to help him nonetheless.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chryseis found him on the steps one day, still worrying over it. 

“What are you doing here on your own, Paris?” she asked, pausing before sitting down next to him. He tried to smile at her, but could not conceal his apprehension. 

Chryseis tilted her head to one side.  
“Still thinking about that night?” she guessed. 

Everyone in the household had heard about it by now. 

“Chryseis,” he said, after a moment. “Nothing _really_ bad is going to happen to her, right? It’s not like she was armed.” 

Chryseis pursed her lips, considering it. “Perhaps not. But this _is_ the residence of Achilles Pelides, and trespassing here with the intent to harm someone can be determined treason.”

“But she wasn’t trying to harm me. All she wanted to know was …” he stopped, rubbing his forehead.   
“ _Why_ was she asking about her father? As far as I know, the settlement with Lord Pedasus was completed months ago.” Achilles hadn’t said another word on the matter. 

Chryseis had a thoughtful look on her face. He had seen that look time and time again, enough to spark some hope in him.  
“I wish I had the answer, Paris. But … perhaps there _is_ something that could get you started on the right track. I’m not sure how helpful it will be, but if you’re really concerned about it ...” 

“Anything.” He took her by the arm. “Oh, Chryseis, if there is anything at all.”  
\---

Before he knew it, they were in the main house’s library which he hardly ever frequented, seeing as it was mostly used as an archive for storing old documents. The room was so rarely visited that it smelled musty, and the shelves were covered in dust. 

“As far as I know,” Chryseis started.   
“The Atreidae used to keep meticulous records of every single noble house in Hellas - including transactions, travel history, supply inventories - any information at all. It had to be reported on an annual basis. When the revolution became more widespread, it was a main objective to get a hold of these records - to prove what the aristocracy had been stealing from the people, so to speak. I see no reason why Achilles wouldn’t continue adding to them.” 

Patroclus shuddered to think that a huge part of the library used to belong to the Atreidae themselves. 

So much knowledge, wrenched from one hand to another through force. 

Achilles didn’t tend to speak much of the revolution - to him, it was a thing of the past, while he was more focused on the future - and Patroclus had been content to move forward with him. But he could not shake the feeling that there was still a past he had not been around to see, and would never truly know. Instances like this reminded him of it. 

Chryseis scanned the shelves, beckoning Patroclus over to show him how the system worked.  
“You know, I was once apprenticed to a librarian. But then my father became involved in the revolution, and it was too risky to continue working there. When we succeeded, Achilles hired me as one of his household staff, and I never looked back.” 

“I didn’t know that.”   
It was the first Patroclus had heard of it, but it made a lot of sense. He’d always thought Chryseis just had an expert knowledge of the house itself - it hadn’t even occurred to him that she might have had a different life, different dreams than managing a household. 

The revolution had changed so much for so many, especially for the peasants. But perhaps Chryseis hadn’t even been a peasant. Her father had been a priest, which meant it was far more likely she was well-educated and living comfortably before the revolution. All these years, and he was still appalled at how much he didn’t know. 

“If you could do it over again, would you have done it differently?” 

She smiled at him over her shoulder.   
“If you’re asking if I’m happy being Achilles’ head of staff, the answer is yes. Sometimes things don’t go as planned. My mentor was killed when a mob overran the Royal Library of Olympia, and that was it for me. I never set foot in there again.” 

It made his stomach clench up. There were certain things that … he just didn’t know how to respond to. 

“I was lucky to be given a second chance at something I could enjoy. Something I would be good at,” Chryseis continued. She did not sound wistful, but the conversation had taken a solemn air nonetheless. 

“And you _are_ good at it,” Patroclus replied. “You are _very_ good at your job, Chryseis.” 

It made her smile again, cheeky, this time.   
“I _know_. And I can’t say I don’t like telling people what to do. It’s one of the perks of being housekeeper, if you’re ever considering a new line of work.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Patroclus laughed. 

It was quiet again as they searched, until Chryseis came upon the section of lesser nobility in Hellas. “Pedasus, you said?” she asked. 

Patroclus nodded. Chryseis slipped out several bound manuscripts, some so old they were falling apart.   
“There’s at least a decade’s worth of records in here. The rest must have been destroyed, or determined not worth keeping. Either way, we can look at the most recent and see if this Briseis’ father is listed.”   
\---

“It’s tricky,” Patroclus said, rifling through the pages. “They’re all named after each other.” 

“There’ll have to be some guesswork there,” Chryseis replied. “How long ago do you think he became Lord of Pedasus?” 

Patroclus kept leafing through until he found a section that detailed when an heir would have inherited the title. 

“If this is him -” he pointed at a Lord Pedasus who had assumed his position some fifty years ago - “then he hardly ever left his hometown. There are plenty of land agreements between him and several foreign entities. But I can’t find anything else.” He paused. “He and his family went for holidays in the south a lot, but that’s it.” 

Chryseis peered at the manuscript.   
“This is all you’re going to get on the man,” she confirmed.   
“But don’t think it’s any small thing. You now know what he did with his money, his travel patterns - this is all information that can be used when you’re trying to find out what happened to him. _You have the facts_. That is going to be important when you’re hearing his side of the story, _if_ his daughter is willing to cooperate with you.”

Patroclus wasn’t sure _how_ that could be put into practice, but he had a feeling he should hold on to them anyway.   
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I found her,” Glaucus said, less than a week later. 

“Where?” Patroclus asked, suddenly anxious.

“Well, she’s not at the state prison at least.” Glaucus sat down, and poured himself a glass of wine. He wasn’t even pretending to be quitting the drink anymore.   
“She’s being held at the city police headquarters. I had to bribe several officers with sexual favors to get this information.”

“... You had to …”

“Just kidding,” Glaucus smiled sheepishly.   
“I gave up my tickets to the horse races. Don’t tell Diomedes I’ve been gambling again.”   
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The city police headquarters was a foreboding building in downtown Olympia, all grey brick and barred windows. Patroclus knew it was really just a collection of offices, but he had never set foot in it and couldn’t help the tingling, prickling sense of disquiet from pooling up in him. 

It wasn’t typical for inmates to receive visitors, and he could see that from how empty the row of holding cells were. There were several people at one end who were homeless, sleeping in their cells or muttering to themselves. They paid him no mind as he walked past with an officer. 

At last, they came to an interrogation room, and the officer opened the door for him. His fingernails were digging into his palms as he stepped in. 

There Briseis was, sitting upright in her chair, looking like she hadn’t seen a wink of sleep in days. Her eyes came up to meet him, and he hesitantly slipped into the chair across from her.

“How many charges are you facing?” he asked. 

She shook her head and looked at the desk.   
“That was a very stupid thing I did.”

“How many?” 

Briseis sighed. “Three.” 

Fuck. She would be facing actual prison time. All for knocking on his door and asking a _question_. 

“I don’t know what to say, Briseis,” he started. “I haven’t seen you in ... ages.”  
And he had only met her once, yet he remembered her because she had been kind to him on a troubling day. 

Oh, the times before the war, he mused. Wouldn’t he give anything to go back to simpler days? 

“I don’t know what I was thinking. As if you would ever … as if you would tell me,” Briseis said. She seemed to shrink into herself, even if her posture remained as straight and proud as ever.   
“But I was at my wits’ end.” 

“What happened?” Patroclus pressed. At least she was talking to him. If he could get her to talk _more_ …

Briseis peered at him uncertainly.   
“I’m not sure I should be saying anything. You’re Pelides’ ally. You have the power to keep me in prison for a long time, if you wanted to.” 

“I’m not here as an enemy, Briseis,” Patroclus insisted.   
“I’m here to listen to what you have to say. I don’t know what happened that night. If you could clear things up for me, it would be much appreciated.” 

“Listen?” Briseis scoffed. “Like Pelides did with my father?”

“Please,” Patroclus added. 

There was a brief silence, where he wasn’t sure if Briseis would oblige or not. But finally, she leaned forward in her chair. He realized her hands were cuffed to the seat. 

“Father went missing at the beginning of the month. I thought he’d gone on a trip to bargain for our land back. He never leaves Pedasus, but there was so much pressure from Pelides’ end, he was afraid we’d wind up in real trouble if he didn’t act fast. But week after week, and there was no sign of him. I contacted his associates in the north to ask after him, and they said he’d never arrived.”

Patroclus nodded. So far, this matched what he’d seen in the records. There were no reports of recent business endeavors. 

“I sent out messages to everyone we knew who could possibly know where he went. Nothing. So I set out to Olympia, thinking he’d come here to make another appeal with Pelides to give us more time. You don’t understand how difficult it is to get land back once we’ve sold it. Father was desperate.”

Patroclus frowned. Here was an inconsistency.   
“Your father was not willing to compromise when given the chance. If he was desperate, why didn’t he accept Achilles’ initial offer?”

“Because it would have ruined us!” Briseis exclaimed.   
“My father kept us from starvation by building a reputation in foreign trade. Every single one of his associates are from the northern border countries. Pelides offered a stipend to cover the costs, but would it have covered our other losses? Decades of careful networking, of relationships forged. If father took the land back, he would have broken their trust. But he was willing to. And now I see why.”

“You think something happened to him on the way to Olympia?” Patroclus questioned, even more puzzled. 

“I know he never made it here. And I’m starting to doubt he ever left Pedasus in the first place.”

“What do you mean?” Patroclus asked. 

“I can’t be sure. If Pelides decided my father was an enemy, then … but I didn’t want to think of it. I didn’t want to believe it.”

“Believe what?” 

Briseis closed her eyes, as if having to steel herself.   
“That he was taken to the camps at Crisa.” 

Patroclus froze. _What_ had she said?

“Then I was notified Pelides had denied my request for an audience. And I _knew_.”

There was a silence, as he struggled to register it. 

“Camps?” he choked out. “What camps?” He had never heard of such a thing. 

Briseis stared at him, and did not answer. 

“Surely you must be mistaken,” Patroclus managed, after a minute.

“I have no proof that my father was taken there. And I think that’s why I came to your house that night. To find anything - anything that would lead me to the truth. But I’m afraid I’m no closer to it.” 

“What are you _talking_ about?” Patroclus demanded, suddenly frustrated. 

“You don’t believe me,” Briseis replied. 

“Believe? I don’t know what to believe! You say your father was taken away, and now you’re telling me about some place in _Crisa_ -” 

“Visiting hours are up!” the officer announced outside, banging on the door. 

Patroclus stood up, somehow feeling relieved and even more frustrated than he’d been before.   
“I don’t know if I should have come.” 

“Look up the army deserters!” Briseis cried, sitting up straighter in her chair as he made to leave.   
“Look up the names of nobles who fled during the revolution! Lord Pherae’s son, Pandarus! Look him up! You’ll _see_ I’m telling the truth!” 

He trudged out of the room, not wanting to hear any more of it. Briseis kept shouting after him, her voice growing more desperate, even when the officer told her to quiet down. 

Patroclus’ legs carried him through the corridor, past the mutters and whispers of the holding cells, out of the building. 

The hairs were standing straight up on the back of his neck. Perhaps Glaucus had been right, and she _was_ a lunatic. Hadn’t she mentioned to him once that she didn’t like Olympia? Perhaps it also meant she was against Achilles. She hadn’t mentioned Achilles’ name _once_ during that visit, as though afraid of summoning the man himself. 

“Take me back to the house,” he told the carriage driver.   
It was going to be hard to forget about this, and he hadn’t gotten the answers he’d wanted.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Well?” Glaucus asked, the next time they met. “Was she willing to talk to you?” 

“I’m not sure it amounted to anything,” Patroclus sighed. 

He glanced at Glaucus. If there was anyone who was attuned to the current gossip in Olympia, it would be him.   
“Have you heard of such a thing as the camps at Crisa?” 

A disbelieving look crossed Glaucus’ face.   
“Where the ice festivals are held? Haven’t you been there?” 

“Once,” Patroclus replied. “She thinks her father might have been taken there.”

“Well, it can’t be a real place, whatever she’s talking about. Wouldn’t it be noticeable? With so many travelers coming to visit?” 

Glaucus was right. It didn’t make much sense, now that he thought about it. 

“That just leaves things even more unresolved,” Patroclus muttered.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Try as he might, he could not get rid of that nagging feeling. It ate away at the back of his head; he felt it when he woke up, when he took Korax out for walks. He even felt it when he was busy arranging new shipments to the war relief. As much as he tried to keep himself occupied, there was unfinished business with Briseis. 

One night, he could not stand it anymore and got out of bed, lighting an oil lamp and making his way to the library archives. 

It took some time for him to recall the system Chryseis had shown him, but eventually he got the hang of it. 

What was that name Briseis had screamed at him? Pandarus, from the House of Pherae. 

He could not find anything at first. He searched for nearly an hour, and was about to determine it a ridiculous, wasted effort. Lord and Lady Pherae had several residences throughout Hellas, being one of the most wealthy of the nobility. Each of their children had inherited one of their estates. There was no mention of a Pandarus. Unless … 

And he looked in the list of documents Lord Pherae would have had to declare to the government. He found the man’s will, and there it was - a youngest son who had been cut out of the line of succession. 

This made things trickier. 

If this Pandarus was unattached to a noble house, it would be difficult to find any trace of him. He looked over everything in the library that had the Pherae name associated with it. Lord and Lady Pherae worked hard to keep their reputation impeccable, but that didn’t stop the occasional stumble. 

Eventually, he came across several court hearings, many of them dated before the revolution. They had been wiped from Pherae’s official record, but that didn’t mean they were allowed to be destroyed. And that was where he found more of Pandarus. 

The man seemed to be a troublemaker of some sort. His parents did what they could to cover up his misdemeanors, including fraud, assault - the very last one was for the _murder_ of a prostitute, which he was to attend a trial for - only to have it delayed, because he had fled the country when the revolution was coming to an end. 

Following that, there was a charge against him as an enemy of the state, and one who had committed treason against the new government of Hellas. A contract was issued permitting his arrest on foreign soil - this was where things became a little murky. 

Patroclus took a closer look at the contract, for it had not been approved by a court of law. It was a private contract, employing the services of someone named … _Diomedes_. 

“What?” Patroclus asked himself, sitting on the floor with the papers all around him. 

Diomedes? What did _he_ have to do with any of this? 

He had dug himself into a rabbit hole, looking through the files of a stranger, a fugitive. A disowned son of the House of Pherae. 

Why had Briseis wanted him to find out about this man?

_Look up the army deserters_ , she had said. _Look up the names of nobles who fled during the revolution!_

He would be stuck here until morning, he knew. Possibly longer than that. 

The noble houses were _very good_ at covering up wrongdoings they did not want on their official documents. He had to sift through more court proceedings, going from region to region. 

Sometimes there was nothing. 

But other times, these families actually wanted to find their runaway relatives, and he would get a lead on something. 

Often, there were charges listing these people as enemies to Hellas, signed by a judge. Some were even signed by Achilles himself. His hand hovered over the signature, one he had come to know so well.

He became more agitated as the searches came up fruitless. 

But by the end of it, he sat in the archives, eyelids heavy from reading so ferociously without rest - and he had found four contracts; each dated from the end of the revolution, each issuing the arrest of a traitor on foreign soil, and each reviewed by Diomedes. 

He knew if he would find any answers at all, it would be through the other man.


	23. Chapter 23

“Ready,” Patroclus said, keeping an eye on the clocktower overhead. They were in one of Olympia’s main plazas, hanging around outside a shoe shop pretending to inspect the merchandise.   
“Be ready to duck out of sight when he comes out.” 

“I _still_ don’t understand why we’re doing this!” Glaucus protested. It had been a real chore getting him to come, but Patroclus knew he needed a second pair of eyes.   
“I mean, Diomedes? What are we going to say if he finds us like this?” 

“Which is why we have to make sure he _doesn’t_.”

“These clothes are really comfortable,” Glaucus observed out of the blue, smoothing down his plain worker’s outfit. They had borrowed a set of clothes from some of the servants, so they could walk around in broad daylight without attracting attention. “I’ve been spending money in the wrong places.” 

“Here he comes!” Patroclus whispered, and pulled Glaucus around the corner as Diomedes was about to pass by them. 

“Alright, so he went to the bank. To deposit all the gold he’s stolen over the years, presumably,” Glaucus tried to joke, but it fell flat. Patroclus was too intent on watching where Diomedes was headed. 

“Looks like he’s going down that street. Let’s go.”

“Patroclus, this is madness!” Glaucus exclaimed, and tugged at Patroclus’ arm to keep him in place.   
“We’ve been following him for three days, and all we’ve learned is that he is a cheapskate and gets the worst cuts of meat from the butcher’s!” 

“We haven’t learned anything _yet_ ,” Patroclus corrected. 

“What exactly are you hoping to learn?” Glaucus demanded. “What did that girl say to you? Because you’ve been like this ever since you went to visit her!” 

Patroclus turned around and took hold of Glaucus’ shoulders, drawing them close so they were eye to eye.   
“ _Something_ is going on around here, Glaucus. I can’t tell you what it is, but I know it’s important. If we don’t do something now, we’ll never get the chance again.”

Glaucus was quiet for a minute, his agitated expression settling down. 

“What street did you say?” he finally asked, and Patroclus gave a firm nod, steering them in the right direction.   
\---

They must have known Diomedes’ routine backwards and forwards by now. The man made a lot of trips downtown, in preparation for international travel. Patroclus tried to think back to the first time he had met the man. Years ago, now, and over time they had become friends. Diomedes came to House Pelides often to report to Achilles on their affairs abroad, but he had never known what _exactly_ the man did. He’d always assumed it had something to do with foreign policy, or that Diomedes was an ambassador of some sort. 

But he had made note that the man had been away on one of these trips, around the same time Briseis’ father had gone missing. Perhaps it was a coincidence. Either way, he was not letting it go until he had a better idea. 

“Did you do what I asked?” Patroclus inquired, when they had called it quits for the day. Running around town while trying to stay unseen was fairly exhausting. They waited for Diomedes to leave the area, before heading home themselves. 

“Mmhm,” Glaucus said. 

Patroclus waited expectantly.   
“...And?” 

“Gods, Patroclus. There’s gossip all over the place. It takes _time_ to figure out what’s worth listening to and what’s not.”

“But the runaways? The nobles who fled the country when they found out the revolution had won? Surely there are people still looking for them.” 

“Patroclus …” Glaucus started, and gave a tired sigh.   
“It’s been five _years_ since the start of Achilles’ rule. Any rumors of that sort would have died down by now. Do you know what matters most to Hellene aristocrats? _Saving face_. You’re not going to find one who’s willing to admit they had a family member who was an enemy of the state.” 

“Not even their own son?” Patroclus pressed, thinking of Pandarus. It was hard to imagine Lord and Lady Pherae, those fawning nobles he had encountered at every single state function, had a son who was accused of treason. 

“If you didn’t think aristocratic life was brutal before, you can think again,” Glaucus replied, raising his eyebrows. 

“What happened to them?” Patroclus asked, more to himself than to Glaucus. 

Those four contracts. Four names. Four people who had been forgotten by their own society. Where had they gone? Would he ever find out? And most importantly - was that what had happened to Briseis’ father?   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

His eyes were watering as he sat curled up on the library floor, poring over any books he could find on Crisa. He’d been spending night after night in there, so much that Korax would come and scratch at the door, wondering why he was not in bed. 

He’d gotten used to the smell of old paper, the lamp carefully placed on a side table to prevent any tipping over and catching of flame. All around him were open tomes - it was difficult to find material on the region at all. Crisa was not a well-inhabited place; due to its harsh climate, most people did not make it out there until it was time for its infamous ice festivals. There were several paragraphs about the different villages - and he was astonished at how few they were compared to the size of the land. 

That was how it had been, when he’d been there with Achilles. The villages worked together to construct the ice festival for travelers and visitors, and they depended on each other during the coldest months for survival. But other than that, they did not leave their homes or have much contact with other regions. Most of the locals at Crisa had not even known what Achilles looked like. The two of them had wandered around in relative anonymity. 

Beyond the villages were the snowcapped mountains, so majestic and serene in the distance. According to the locals, the climb was treacherous, and only the most experienced mountaineers led expeditions there. But one thing Patroclus learned that he had not known when he’d been to Crisa was its history as a mining colony. In the old days, when Hellas was simply a collection of regions with no real name to it, Crisa had been known for its gold and copper mines. There was nothing to suggest they were still in use; Hellas as a whole was still relatively backwards when it came to international trade. 

Just one more page, Patroclus thought, yawning hard and closing his eyes a little to give them a rest. It was funny how this type of reading material would have been so intimidating to him years ago. Now he simply read - some of it was still difficult, but he did not worry about it as he’d done back then. Polyxena would have been proud. 

Outside, Korax whined. 

“Alright, boy,” he said, closing the books carefully and piling them up.   
“Let’s get to bed.” 

Even then, there was a certain unrest in his mind borne from the thirst for knowledge. Once it had been awakened in him, there was no stifling it. Perhaps he could see what Briseis felt, then. How it was to yearn for the truth, feeling as though it were right underneath his fingertips.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Around him were sounds he thought he could get lost in; a broomstick sweeping against tiled floor, the incessant _snip snip snip_ of scissors - they were in a barbershop, and he wasn’t sure why Glaucus had called him here. 

“You know,” Glaucus said, waiting his turn for a haircut.   
“I always forget something when I’ve got my ears open for rumors.” 

“And what’s that?” Patroclus questioned, looking around him at the scene.   
There was one old man getting a shave, and another having his mustache trimmed. Otherwise it was calm, and no one seemed to be listening in. The thing was, this was not the sort of place that Glaucus tended to frequent. The other man was fond of lively crowds in pubs, dinner parties with music - this was in fact the last place Patroclus would have imagined him in. 

“That there’s always two sides to the story,” Glaucus grinned. He waved at the barber, signaling he was still waiting his turn.   
“I’ve been so preoccupied socializing with the aristocrats and waiting for any mention of fugitives that I completely forgot they’re not the _only_ people in Hellas.” 

Glaucus beckoned Patroclus closer to whisper in his ear.   
“Take this place, for example. All these old men come here for a biweekly cut and shave. And you know what they do while they’re getting their mustaches waxed?”

Patroclus frowned skeptically at the old men. “What?”

“ _Gossip_!” Glaucus exclaimed, in as low a voice as he could. He had that boyish look on his face he got sometimes, when he was really excited about something.   
“You’d be surprised what you can learn just by striking up some conversation.” 

Patroclus considered this. If anyone could be tasked with such a thing, it would be Glaucus.   
“And what have you learned?” 

“The fugitives,” Glaucus started. “Their families might not admit that they fled the country, but there are people who know about it. Staff members, friends of friends. Word on the street is that there was a mass interrogation going on, and people started disappearing by the _dozens_. It never reached Olympia, but there were sightings of soldiers in the outer regions.”

“Sightings?” Patroclus repeated, disbelieving. “Since when have the soldiers left Olympia?” 

“They’re getting more involved in the outer regions,” Glaucus replied.   
“There’s no way to prove it. But the barber’s cousin’s son-in-law _insisted_ that -”

“Hold on,” Patroclus interrupted, pinching the bridge of his nose.   
“Glaucus. I know what you’re trying to do, but if we’re going to get anywhere, we need _reputable_ information.”

“I can find out more!” Glaucus insisted, grabbing Patroclus’ arm eagerly.   
“I know it’s all hearsay right now, but it has to come from _somewhere_. You said something was going on, and if we don’t act, we’ll never have the chance again. _This is our chance, Patroclus_!” 

Patroclus wasn’t certain about it. 

“Give me time,” Glaucus added.   
“And what’s the harm? If I’m wrong about it, then I’m wrong. But what if I’m right?” 

It wasn’t often that Patroclus admitted Glaucus was right. 

“Two sides of the same story,” he mused, watching the barber and his customers, a world apart from the upper-class folk of Olympian high society.  
“If we consider both, perhaps it’s our step forward.” 

“I’m sure of it,” Glaucus stated. “This time, I’m sure of it.”  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Every few days, Patroclus and Glaucus would meet up for an exchange of information. Sometimes, there was nothing. Other times, there would be something new that piqued Patroclus’ interest.   
It was almost comical watching Glaucus getting dressed up for a fancy event, only to return a few hours later and change into his worker’s clothes for when he hung around local venues. 

At least it was a step up from examining the official records, which had its uses but ultimately led to a dead end. Even then, Patroclus never stopped looking.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was a particularly hot afternoon, and he’d had to give Korax a bath after the dog had rolled in a huge puddle of mud. 

“Stay,” he’d commanded, while Korax sat forlornly in the bathtub. 

Still covered in bits of soil himself, he went downstairs to get an extra supply of soap. 

“There’s got to be some here,” he muttered to himself, rummaging through the linen closet that the staff usually kept well-stocked. 

A shadow fell over him; he looked over his shoulder and froze. 

“Need some help?” Diomedes asked. 

“I don’t -”

Diomedes reached over and slid aside some towels, revealing a basket where the bars of soap were kept. 

Patroclus had never been this aware of the other man before, how he towered over him.

Look at those hands, he thought. The hands that had signed those contracts, sentencing those people for a life on the run. How many were there that he hadn’t even found? More than four, he knew. There had to be more than four. 

“Fancy you knowing this house better than I do,” Patroclus remarked nervously, forcing himself to look Diomedes in the eye. 

“These are the sorts of things I make sure to know,” Diomedes shrugged. 

His stance was casual, his expression unreadable. A man who was never surprised, as Patroclus had first thought of him years ago, when they had met. 

“Especially when the other person makes it their business to follow me around and find out every detail of my daily life.” 

Patroclus had gone so still his arms flopped to his sides, lax. 

Diomedes waited for him to answer, a lion in the brush. 

“What did you do to those people?” Patroclus asked.   
He didn’t know where the courage to speak those words came from, but all the while he wished the floor would swallow him whole. He couldn’t get his voice to go any louder than a whisper. And looking into Diomedes’ eyes, large and steely, he had no doubt the man knew what he was talking about. 

They stood there, looking at each other. 

He expected an outburst, a show of anger. 

But Diomedes remained unfazed, expression perhaps a little more grim than before. 

“You are getting a little too deep into something that might well overwhelm you,” Diomedes murmured, tilting his head to one side.   
“Before you ask any more questions, I suggest you think about the consequences of such knowledge.” 

Patroclus gritted his teeth. He was _not_ going to be told what to do by this man whom he realized was not his friend, and never had been. This was a man he barely knew, a stranger he had included in his circle for years. 

“ _What_ did you do to those people?” he asked again. 

If Diomedes wanted to take his time, he could. Patroclus would wait as long as he needed to. 

Diomedes pursed his lips in displeasure. There was the slightest trace of indignance in his eyes, even if he masked it well. 

The seconds felt like minutes, until Diomedes finally answered. 

“Ask Achilles,” he said. 

“What -”

“Ask him.” 

Diomedes turned around, and stalked away. Patroclus realized he had been holding his breath. 

“I’d be curious to know what he says,” Diomedes threw out over his shoulder. 

And he was gone.   
\---

Patroclus was left standing there, clutching the closet door with one hand. He had forgotten what he’d gone there for in the first place.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sometimes he took walks by the river when he needed to be alone. It reminded him of his early days in Olympia, a space away from it all to quiet his thoughts.   
They had planted magnolia trees all along the pathway, and the scent of it filled the air, cleared his mind in its heady perfume. 

His hand reached under his collar in that old habit of his. It made him smile a little. Just when he’d thought habits could die. 

The silver ring was not there anymore, kept safe and hidden in his drawer. After what had happened with Achilles that distant day in Laconia, he could not risk anyone else putting two and two together. 

Puzzles, he thought. Was the world just a large puzzle, one that he had only been given pieces of? 

He remembered the day Achilles had returned the ring to him. He’d almost forgotten about it, in his sorrow over Troy, in his helplessness. 

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he’d said.   
It had been the day after Polyxena left, that time she’d come to visit. He’d gone to sleep the night before feeling determined and refreshed - and woken up the next morning as unsure of himself as he’d begun with. 

That was the thing about confidence. It came and went - and if there was one thing that remained a mystery to him, it was how some men summoned it to their will as they pleased. He was not one of those men. 

Achilles had said nothing, being used to his nervous ramblings by then. He’d been quiet all the way through dinner. He’d been quiet when they lay side by side in bed. 

“I can feel you worrying from over here,” he’d suddenly remarked, hours later, when Patroclus had thought he’d fallen asleep. 

“Sorry,” Patroclus had mumbled, into his pillow.   
It wasn’t that he _chose_ to doubt himself. It was second nature, one that plagued him. He wished he were different.   
“It’s just that I’m a fraud.” 

“I think the whole country would agree, seeing whose identity you’ve assumed all this while,” Achilles replied drily, but it was a jest. They had gotten so used to it that it was nothing but an ongoing joke between them. And now Achilles knew his name. 

“I don’t really know what I’m doing. Didn’t I ever tell you that?” Patroclus refuted. 

He thought Achilles really did fall asleep then, it was quiet for so long. 

Then the bed shifted, and he felt a weight being dropped onto the pillow next to him. 

“What -” 

His fingers found the cool metal, the curve of the ring in his hand. 

“Now tell me -” Achilles said, right beside his ear.   
“Would this have been entrusted to someone with no capability?”

“It’s my -”

“You’ve forgotten it. Wouldn’t your king be disappointed.” 

Patroclus turned around, side pressing against Achilles’ middle.   
“You kept it safe for me.” 

“And why shouldn’t I have? It is yours. The protector’s ring.” 

If he could have bottled up that feeling and kept it as a spare, he would have. 

The absolute conviction in Priam’s eyes when he’d been given his blessing, and the belief that now rang true in Achilles’ - as though it wasn’t even a question at all. 

He, Patroclus, was a person who could be depended on. 

And all that self-doubt melted away, because it would only hinder his ability to fulfill his duty to the people he cared about.   
\---

Touching that place where he’d once worn the ring, he suddenly missed Achilles terribly. 

Long weeks had faded into long months. And while he’d been content at first, even forgetting the other’s stark absence sometimes - all he wanted was that reassuring presence; letting him know that everything was alright, after all.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Glaucus was having a little too much fun wandering the streets and making acquaintances with the locals. 

“It’s nice to not have to be myself,” he sighed, still dressed in his laborer’s outfit. 

Patroclus nearly rolled his eyes at him. Rain or shine, silk or rags, Glaucus was _always_ himself. 

It was a slightly gloomy day, but they were sitting outside the barbershop again. The barber and his wife had gotten so familiar with Glaucus that they brought out steaming cups of tea and small cakes as soon as they saw him. 

“Do you ever wonder what life would be like if you’d been born a Hellene?” Glaucus continued.   
“I rather fancy myself a barber’s son, now that I think of it.” 

“Your hair _has_ been rather spiffy lately,” Patroclus agreed, trying not to laugh. 

“Do you think so?” Glaucus asked, eyes widening a little.   
“Do you think I could really have a different life, if I wanted it?” 

This was something Patroclus could not answer. 

“You’re asking the wrong person,” he admitted. 

“All this time I thought the only thing I was worth was to mingle with aristocrats and try to blend in. But I don’t have to be, do I? It’s not like father is going to jump out of the grave and go; _Glaucus, you absolutely must be an aristocrat_. Father’s gone. Has been for a long time. Perhaps I never accepted that? Oh Patroclus, what have I been _doing_ wasting my life?” 

“You’re not wasting your life,” Patroclus argued. 

Where had he heard this before? Oh gods, he thought. Himself. 

“If you could choose your life, what would you choose?” Glaucus inquired. 

“I …” Patroclus frowned. He’d never thought of it before. 

“I think I’d still like to be Trojan. But my parents would be alive, and they would be nice people like the barber and his wife. And I would have a lot of siblings and we’d all run the shop after father retired.”   
Glaucus beamed, satisfied with this dream.   
“It would be nice, I think. Having a family who likes you as you are, petty squabbles over who has to sweep the hair up and who gets the difficult customer. We wouldn’t worry about clothes and parties and being exiled by the king.”

“That’s … something,” Patroclus muttered.   
He didn’t know why he was suddenly weary, hearing about something so far away it could never come true. Perhaps it was Glaucus’ earnest demeanor - making it seem like a possible reality, when in fact, they did not live in the same world as these people Glaucus so envied. 

“What about you?” Glaucus asked. “Go on! If you could choose any life at all -”

“I have a good life,” Patroclus cut in. He didn’t mean for his voice to sound so stiff.

“Yes, I know. But humor me, Patroclus. Surely there’s something you want?”

What was it he’d wanted so long ago?   
He thought of a road covered in flower petals, linking arms with the girls as they sang in different languages. The colors of two countries, shining on an iced cake. Didn’t he have that now? Didn’t he have somewhere he belonged? Didn’t he have someone who loved him? 

“I’m no good at dreaming, Glaucus,” he replied, smiling sheepishly.   
“I suppose I only want … what most people want.”

Glaucus stayed quiet, but gave him a long look. 

“It’s alright,” he said, squeezing Patroclus’ hand.   
“I think you’d make an excellent shoe-shiner yourself.”

It made Patroclus laugh. “If you say so.”   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He was so wrapped up in that conversation with Glaucus that he didn’t even notice the house was busier than usual. 

“Paris,” Chryseis called him, carrying a large soup tureen.   
“Will you please help me set the table? I’m afraid we’re a little short-staffed today.” 

If Chryseis was asking for help, it meant the kitchen really was overwhelmed. 

“What’s the occasion?” he asked, seeing that the dining room was open.   
And then he mentally smacked himself, because why else would it be used? 

Achilles was back and he hadn’t even realized. 

He set the table, then helped the servants carry the heaviest dishes out.   
“Do you need anything else?” he asked, but Chryseis shooed him away. 

He went up the stairs, slowing down a little, his hand dragging against the railing.   
When was the last time he hadn’t rushed to see Achilles as soon as the man was home? And what was that feeling in his stomach, pinched and heavy like a metal clamp? 

He stood on the stairs for a while, hearing Korax’s nails clacking about on the floor upstairs. 

He heard Achilles’ voice, telling the dog to sit. 

The sound of that voice soothed him momentarily. Achilles was home. Of course it was going to be alright. 

He shook his head at himself for being ridiculous, and went the rest of the way upstairs.   
\----------------------------------------------

Achilles was sitting in their room, removing his boots. He must have arrived only a few minutes ago. 

Patroclus found himself hovering in the doorway, watching the man’s relaxed movements. Always the same. He’d just been missing him, he thought. 

Achilles started a little when he caught sight of Patroclus.   
“Didn’t see you there,” he said. He smiled expectantly. 

All of a sudden, it was as though his troubles did not exist. What had he been thinking? It was Achilles. 

He went over to him and wrapped his arms around the other man. That familiar scent, the comfort of his touch. He laid his cheek against Achilles’ head and closed his eyes. 

“Hello to you too,” Achilles laughed, and patted his arm.   
He stood up once he had changed into more comfortable shoes, and pulled Patroclus into a proper hug. 

Patroclus struggled for something to say, but his voicebox seemed shut away in his throat. He buried his face against Achilles’ chest. 

“What’s this?” Achilles asked, pulling away a little to look at him. “Quiet today, aren’t we?”   
He was trying for humor, but there was an uncertainty to his gaze, roaming over Patroclus searchingly. 

He looked at him for a while, then seemed to come to a conclusion.   
“I know I was away longer than I said.” 

“No,” Patroclus managed. “We did just fine here.” 

“Of course you did.” 

“It was just -” he stopped himself.   
“Korax missed you a lot. Like I said he would.” 

Achilles glanced at the dog, a hint of amusement in his features.   
“Well, I missed him terribly myself.” 

Patroclus laughed, and took Achilles’ arm to lead him downstairs.   
“Chryseis is going to be upset if we let the food go cold. You really need to pay her more. A feast, every time you come home?” 

They were halfway out of the room when Achilles stopped him. 

“What is it?” the other man asked, softly. 

Patroclus looked up at him, startled.   
“What?” 

Achilles searched his face again, seriously.   
“It’s that Pedasus girl, isn’t it? Don’t think I didn’t get a report of the incident.”

Patroclus’ heartbeat had accelerated, hearing mention of Briseis. He forced himself to calm down.   
“No, of course not. She didn’t do anything.” 

Achilles’ mouth turned downwards, a sign he was not satisfied.   
“To think someone could come to our _home_ in the middle of the night like that.” 

Then he frowned, eyes meeting Patroclus’.   
“You didn’t send word of it.” 

“I …” Patroclus swallowed.   
“It really wasn’t something to panic over.”

“Still,” Achilles said. “I would rather know about something like this than not.”   
He finally let it go, sighing.   
“Anyway, I’ve requested a new guard retinue for when I’m not around. This won’t happen again.” 

Patroclus could only nod quietly, and they made their way to dinner.   
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The food was perfect. Yet he couldn’t quite stomach it. He swiveled his spoon in his stew, watching the oil and gravy separating, sliding off the metal. He usually loved the smell of cooking. Now it suffocated him. 

Achilles tutted at him when he couldn’t finish anything and scraped the contents off his plate onto his own. It was another old habit, one that usually made him smile.   
_There_ was a hint of the man who had grown up in Nowhere, Phthia, too poor to consider wasting food. 

All the things the man was, he thought. Achilles from Phthia. Achilles of the people. Achilles, who saw right through Paris and knew Patroclus’ true name. 

His hand tightened around his spoon. 

“Who is Diomedes?” he asked abruptly, and his voice sounded too loud in his ears. 

Achilles stopped eating. 

He wasn’t looking the other man in the eye, but he could feel that hard stare on him. 

Then Achilles resumed his meal. 

“You’re telling me after all the time you’ve spent with the man, you do not know who he is?” Achilles took a sip of wine. 

Patroclus took a deep breath, gathering enough will to meet his gaze finally. 

“Please answer the question.” 

His hand was so tight around the spoon, the sides made grooves in his skin. 

Achilles sighed. Then he looked at him again. They must have sat there for the better part of an hour.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I told you who he was the day you met him,” Achilles said, as soon as they were in his study, the door shut behind them.   
“Do you not remember?”

“I remember. You said he takes care of your business abroad.” 

Achilles nodded a little. “You’re missing something.” 

Patroclus frowned. 

“I said he was arguably the most instrumental member of the revolution. Did I not?”

“That doesn’t tell me anything.” 

Achilles lowered himself into his chair, leaning back in it.   
“Doesn’t it?”

“Stop playing games with me!” Patroclus snapped, the anger rising all of a sudden. He was shocked at himself. Where had this come from? 

“I found them. The contracts. His signature on every one. What does he do for you?” 

Hestia, he _knew_. As soon as the question was out of his mouth, he knew. 

And Achilles recognized it too, the way he was looking at him. 

“Tell me it’s not true.” Why was he pleading? 

“What do you want me to tell you?” Achilles asked. He was frowning, more disappointed than anything.   
“Do you think I got here without making sacrifices?” 

“Sacrifices?”

“You think one wins a revolution without making enemies.” 

“They were people who ran away because they were afraid!” 

“Perhaps,” Achilles allowed.   
“But in doing so, they made a choice. I offered them a chance to return. Do you think any of them took it? That tells me all I need to know on whether someone is with me or against me.” 

“You could have just exiled them.” 

“Could I have?” Achilles stood up, pacing the room in agitation.   
“Do you really think taking that chance would have been a wise move? Considering the amount of opposition I was already receiving. Do you know what it’s like to assume power, with _nowhere_ to look for loyalty?” 

“So that’s what Diomedes does for you,” Patroclus replied.   
“He proves his loyalty by hunting down and assassinating the people you declare as enemies.” 

“I did not lead Hellas to victory by leaving stones unturned. You knew that when you met me.”

“I didn’t -” he stopped. 

He _had_. Achilles had done the very same thing to the Atreidae. It had been public. It had been gruesome. But … they were the monarchy the revolution was against. They had oppressed the people for centuries. 

His head was spinning. _Two sides to the story_. Two sides. Which one to believe?   
He had understood Achilles’ vision all this while, a Hellas for the people … but …

“But they’re your people too!” he exclaimed.   
“You don’t get to _pick and choose_ who to protect. You may hate the nobility, but when you stepped up as leader of Hellas you swore an oath to protect every one of them!” 

“So I did,” Achilles agreed.   
“There is trust between a leader and his people. It goes both ways. If they can keep their good faith, then I must do the same. And if they turn against me - then I will return the favor.” 

“What did you do to Briseis’ father?” Patroclus demanded. 

Then, softer - “Is he dead?”

Achilles shook his head. 

Patroclus felt himself shrinking further. 

“Was he … taken to Crisa?” 

Achilles’ head snapped up, and he knew he had gotten right into it. 

“What are they?” Patroclus pressed. “What are the camps?” 

Achilles closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Patroclus thought he wouldn’t answer, then. 

“They are prison camps,” he finally replied.   
“Anyone who is suspected of treason is taken there for questioning. If they are found to be guilty, they remain there to be made an example of.” 

“An example.” 

Patroclus had to sit down now. He was running out of strength. 

A village of ice, life frozen before his very eyes. 

“Why - why did we never see them, when we went there?” 

“If we’d been able to get to the mountains, then perhaps we would have,” Achilles shrugged.   
“The camps are past the mountain range, near the mines for copper and gold.”

He had been _right_. 

“The worst transgressors are made to work there. The others keep the camps running.” 

Achilles crossed his arms and looked at Patroclus again. 

“What else do you want to know?” 

“What about trials? Do they not deserve trials?” Patroclus urged. His voice had grown so weak. 

Achilles leaned his head to one side, considering. 

“Trials. You think those who have turned their back against their country deserve _trials_.”

“I -”

“Let me tell you something, Patroclus. Every one of these people are given a _choice_. If they flee the country, they are asked to return. If they conspire with enemies, they are asked to reveal information.”

“And what if they are innocent?” 

Achilles actually laughed, then. 

“That is the kind of mindset that would have lost me my country. You think I enjoy watching these people suffer? I do not. But you see - I will do anything to bring Hellas the liberation it deserves. _Anything it takes_. A Hellas where the good are rewarded and the evil are punished.” 

His smile faded, taking on a solemn expression again. 

“That is who I am. That is _what_ I am. I will do anything for my people, but I will _not_ show mercy. Hellas deserves a strong leader, who has an eye out on the storm before it even arrives.”

He went up to Patroclus then, that look still on his face. A mixture of anticipation, of worry, of confusion, even. 

“You asked for the truth. I have given you the truth.” 

“You have,” Patroclus said.

“You said you would march with me in a sea of rebellion.” 

“I did.” 

He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling that touch on his cheek. 

“Then?” Achilles asked, gently. 

Patroclus hadn’t even noticed he had started to shake a little, until he felt Achilles’ hand shaking with him. 

“What do you want me to say?” he asked. 

If someone could tell him what to do. If someone could tell him how to keep himself together. 

“That you want me still,” Achilles said, and his voice did waver a little, then.   
“That you won’t leave my side. That I was right, to choose you.” 

“I …” Patroclus said, and Hestia, he was going to fall onto his knees if Achilles didn’t catch him. He wobbled a little, taking hold of Achilles’ arm for support. 

“I know who I am,” Achilles stated, firmly.   
He lifted Patroclus’ chin.  
“Who are _you_?” 

And for the first time in his life, Patroclus did not know the answer.


	24. Chapter 24

Rain pattered against the roof. 

The rumbling of thunder, like the rolling of a great boulder in the distance. 

The air was fresh and sweet, and he felt the condensation on his face as he leaned against the windowsill. He liked watching the droplets sliding down the glass, hypnotizing, the way they moved. 

When the rain grew too heavy, he drew the windows shut. And he kept the curtains open, so he could watch lightning streak across the sky, white veins against black. He could hear the dog padding over the floor, the slump of weight as he settled on the rug by the door. Afraid of storms, Korax was. 

Patroclus didn’t mind them. Once he’d thought them melancholy, a weight on the spirit, a manifestation of dread. Now they were freeing, like the pouring down of a thousand tears, to settle the heart and clear the mind. He could go to sleep like that, no better potion than those sounds. 

There was a rain song that Achilles liked to play, staccato on the keys to mimic water on a tin roof. He thought it a happy tune, because what better way to uplift than to hear it even when it was grey?

He was warm and safe in his blankets, his head against the pillow; once it turned into a downpour, the flow of it lulled him further adrift.  
Now it was a struggle to keep his eyes open, that foggy daze where his feet had just touched the gate of the dreamworld - only to wake up again, as the bed dipped beside him and a warm body hovered over his, turning him around a little to see his face. 

Yellow lamplight was harsh on the eyes as he opened them, but he could make out the other’s solid form; an instant balm.  
Achilles smoothed his hair back and touched his forehead, each fingertip a spot of warmth against his skin. Then he traced the bridge of his nose, and nudged at his eyelashes to make him open his eyes further. 

“Hmm?” Patroclus asked, because he had been _right there_ , comfortable and on the brink between sleeping and waking. 

Sometimes he thought they were two worlds - and the space between them was that moment when he wasn’t sure what he was seeing, only that he never wanted it to stop; because it was Achilles’ touch and his gaze, the sureness of them. 

It was something he never wanted to forget. 

“Stay awake for me for a little while,” Achilles said, simply looking at him. 

Patroclus laughed and wriggled around so he lay on his back, and could run his hand up the length of Achilles’ arm, up to his shoulder, his neck. Sometimes he needed to touch him to make sure he was there - as though seeing him was not enough. 

“I _am_ awake,” Patroclus replied.  
“Well, almost.” 

What he got in reply was a light kiss on the neck. 

“You want to make love?” he asked. 

Achilles didn’t answer, only drew back to look at him more, one hand around the side of his face. 

“I just want to look at you,” he said, eventually. “And talk.” 

Times like this his voice was so soft, not quite a whisper; more like the air itself, infused with a warm timbre. Patroclus loved it even more than any kind of music. 

“What do you want to talk about?” 

“I don’t know,” Achilles replied, and laughed this time. The laugh never left his face even when it died down. 

His hand moved and stroked the top of Patroclus’ mouth, past his nose and up his cheekbone, right underneath his eye.

“Your eyes are very dark,” Achilles commented absent-mindedly.  
“Sometimes I see my reflection in them and wonder if that is how you see me.” 

“And what is that you think I see?” Patroclus questioned, shifting over a little so he was curled even closer around Achilles. Their legs were tangled together under the sheets. 

“Different, all the time. Sometimes it’s perfect. Sometimes it’s distorted. And sometimes you blink, and it’s gone. I’m gone.” 

The silence rang between them, and he almost caught a glimpse of Achilles’ thoughts beneath the surface. 

“Gone?” Patroclus asked. 

“Gone.”

He contemplated it. 

Then he smiled. 

“If that’s true, why is it that I still see you when I close my eyes?” 

And he kissed him, hard and gentle at the same time. 

“So you see, my love - you can’t always rely on reflections.”  
\---

He shuddered awake, the shutters swinging open and banging against the wall outside. In the corner, Korax was whining. 

“Oh,” he said to himself. 

It was such a shock, the chill of the storm filtering through the room, the sheets still warm from his body heat. He threw the covers off and stumbled over to the window, pulling it shut so the noise from outside was a wall away. 

Korax got up from his crouch and walked over to Patroclus, put his head on his knee. 

“It’s alright, boy,” he said, stroking the soft head and looking into those brown puppy eyes. 

Still a puppy, after all these years. Given to him by someone he loved dearly, who had wanted to make him happy. 

His chest hurt so badly when he thought of it. His fingers threaded through Korax’s fur; there was such a difference, he thought, glancing at the pristinely made up spot on the bed next to him. 

The difference between being alone, which he did not mind at all - and being lonely. The kind of loneliness that ate away at him and forced him awake from memories where he found shelter. 

He rubbed his eyes and his face.  
Early in the morning, he’d lain still as a statue, wide awake - hearing the movement around him as Achilles got ready in the dark, just as efficiently as he did in the light.  
He’d held himself so tense, praying, praying to be left alone; but hoping, secretly hoping that the man would not forgo their ritual. 

Because it was never goodbye between them. Just kisses and meaningless words, but never goodbye. 

He’d held his breath, waiting, his back turned to Achilles and the covers pulled up tight around his neck.  
He’d heard a pause in the movement, Achilles’ boots scuffing against the floor.  
His heart had sunk when there was nothing. 

But then, a light touch on his head, smoothing his hair back. And a deep sigh. 

It had been that struggle again, the one he knew best. His heart and his mind against each other. 

_Don’t let him go_ , his heart said. _Tell him you love him before he goes_. 

_Be quiet and go to sleep_ , his mind insisted. _Now is not the time_. 

And as always, when he waited too long - neither one won. 

The touch was gone before he knew it, Achilles’ footsteps fading and the door clicking shut. He couldn’t even remember a time in the past when he hadn’t been asleep before the man left. Now he was wide awake, every last echo of Achilles’ absence ringing within him. 

Hours later, while the storm raged on so darkly he could not tell if morning had passed - he sat on his bed and wished he had said the words.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 _Dear Polyxena_ , he wrote, and his hand hovered. 

_I do not know what to do. If you could only tell me_. And he immediately crossed it out. That small instance of truth, lying in the ink. 

_Dear Polyxena_ , he tried again. 

_Everything is alright_. And he crossed it out again, forcefully this time, because now it was a lie and she would know it. 

He dropped the pen and sighed, ink splattering all over his good paper, staining his fingers. He looked down at those black streaks dirtying the skin. No one’s fault but his, he thought. For being so blind. No one had tried to fool him but himself. 

He had never been ready to come here. Priam had chosen the wrong person; while Troy had needed someone strong in both mind and spirit, they had gotten Patroclus instead - someone so lost he’d fallen for a country that wasn’t his, and given his love to a person he was never meant to be with. 

He looked outside the window, where the storm had just about ebbed. The clouds were still grey and there were pools of mud all over the garden - Korax would like them. Perhaps he could take the dog out for a while, to cheer himself up more than anything - and who cared if he had to give the old boy a bath afterwards. 

Across the way, several buildings down, was the last house on the compound. It was identical to the other guesthouses, identical to the one he’d stayed in when he’d first arrived. But he’d always thought there was something isolated about it, the way it faced the other way instead of the river. One would not be able to see the lights across the water if they stayed in that house. 

He had seen Diomedes lingering around it before, and wondered why the man chose to stay in the furthest guesthouse. Perhaps he didn’t like the company.  
He shook his head. He didn’t know why he was thinking of Diomedes all of a sudden. 

“Korax!” he called. “Let’s see what we can do outside, shall we?”  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“That’s what I keep hearing,” Glaucus said, sitting on the steps with his hat pulled all around his face to keep out the wind. It was almost comical, if Patroclus hadn’t been so weary.  
“Sightings of soldiers, way out in the country, looking for people who know any of the traitors. No one escapes suspicion.”

Patroclus shook his head. He had heard enough.

“I knew the army was strong, but …” Glaucus trailed off. “There are other rumors.”

“We don’t need rumors, Glaucus,” Patroclus exhaled. “We already know the truth.” 

“We know Achilles’s truth,” Glaucus argued, after a minute. “What about all these people? I thought you wanted to help them!” 

“Help?” Patroclus sat up straighter.  
“You, talking about _help_? You didn’t even blink when I told you who Diomedes is!”  
He breathed hard, trying to chase away the anger. There was nowhere for it to go and he knew he was taking it out on Glaucus, and it wasn’t fair. 

“I haven’t even talked to Diomedes. How am I supposed to judge him if I haven’t even had a chance to listen to him?”

“Because he murders Achilles’s political enemies for money,” Patroclus snapped, and clamped his mouth shut. He was just making it worse. 

“You don’t know that! You don’t know Diomedes. You think he’s a bad person because of what he does but you won’t even give him the chance to speak!”

“Listen to yourself! You’re in complete denial,” Patroclus cut in. 

“I only know what I know. I know he helped me when he didn’t have to. I know he was there for me when I had no one. You don’t just turn your back on someone like that,” Glaucus replied, and the words were like a slap on the face. 

“I’m not …” he said. “I’m not turning my back.” He wasn’t sure if they were even talking about Diomedes anymore. 

Glaucus’s expression softened. “I didn’t mean it like that.”  
He stood up awkwardly. “I don’t mean that you …” he sighed, unable to finish the sentence.  
“I’ll see you around. And I’ll continue with my work so far, just in case.” 

Patroclus was left standing by himself, wondering when Glaucus had become the wiser of them both.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He spotted Diomedes in the main kitchen one evening, just when he’d been steeling up to approach him. Now that the man was here, he found that he didn’t quite know what to say. 

He watched Diomedes clearing up the potted plants that had fallen over during the storm in the past few days, then picking up the package of food Chryseis had left for him. Diomedes was on such good terms with all of the staff that they cooked him meals even when he wasn’t staying at the house. 

Diomedes caught sight of Patroclus and froze. Then he looked away and kept walking. 

Patroclus stood hesitating in the doorway, fumbling around for the words. They slipped right past him. 

He had always been a sort of third wheel to Diomedes and Glaucus’ friendship; but their dynamics with each other individually were completely different.  
While Glaucus was chatty and upbeat, able to talk Patroclus’ ear off until he stopped making sense; Diomedes was usually a bit of a grump.  
Yet there had been something about him Patroclus liked - underneath that stoic demeanor - there was an honesty to him. And they got along swimmingly.

He’d thought he had judged the man’s character completely wrong, finding out what he did for Achilles. Now he wasn’t sure. 

“Dio -” he stopped himself. 

Diomedes stopped in his tracks, and turned around to face him. Neither of them were the most verbose people. 

“Just came to pick up my dinner,” Diomedes huffed. He clutched the package close to his chest, shifting his feet awkwardly. 

“Oh. I - I know. I just ..”

“You don’t have to talk to me,” Diomedes cut in. “We can just forget about it all.”

Patroclus frowned. “Forget all of what?”

That they were ever friends? But he’d been quick to do that, hadn’t he? He had no one but himself to blame.

Diomedes’ mouth turned down, unhappy. 

“Why do you do it?” Patroclus asked, voice cracking a little.  
“What amount of money could possibly be worth it?”

“You think it’s about money,” Diomedes said, softly.  
“That’s truly what you think of me.” He sounded so, _so_ disappointed. 

“Then what could it be?” Patroclus urged. 

“No, you go on believing what you want. I never fooled myself that I could change people’s minds.”

“Diomedes -”

“Want to know how many people I’ve killed? More than you could think to _count_ ,” Diomedes spat.  
“I was a selfish young man who knew no better and now there’s no getting out of it. You see? There’s no excuse.” 

They lapsed into silence. 

“If you killed Achilles’ enemies …” Patroclus started. He had to try.  
“Who are the people who got sent to the camps? What are their names - which families did they belong to?”

“Don’t ask me about the camps,” Diomedes replied, after a minute.  
“I have nothing to do with them.”

There it was. The anger again. He was so _sick_ of fumbling around blindly for the truth.  
“You have to know _something_ about it. Aren't you Achilles’ dog, called to heel over and over -”

Diomedes moved so fast he didn’t have time to blink.  
“You’re right,” he said, and they were nose to nose, so close he could see the lines in the man’s irises.  
“You scratch the surface, and think you’ve gotten to the bottom of the well, haven’t you?”

“I know you’re hiding something. I want to know how Briseis’ father disappeared so quickly, without a trace. I want to know how many others there are like him.”

“I deal with the dead,” Diomedes replied, teeth gritted. “You are asking about the living. That, I do not _know_.” 

Diomedes let him go, and they parted ways without another word. 

All those records, Patroclus thought. He had pored over them over and over again, and somehow those names had escaped him. The names of people who were still alive, who were living out the rest of their lives in the mines at Crisa, who were guilty because someone more powerful had decided it was so. He could not let go of it.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He hadn’t felt like playing music in a long time. Sometimes he came here and sat at the piano, the top of it covered in a fine layer of dust. He thought of all the songs he knew and they made his heart ache, so he could not bring himself to touch the keys. 

They had made him happy once. They had consoled him in the lowest moments of the war. And that war seemed so far away now. He thought of it, and he thought of the secret atrocities that were being done here, and could find no way out. There was never any escape from suffering, whether it was here or there - seen or unseen. 

The ballroom had been his favorite room in the whole house. He and Achilles had danced until their feet ached, danced until he could match the other, light as a cloud. 

He smiled a little, thinking of it. Picturing the two of them stepping across the floor. 

If he could have put them in a music box, to be twirling around permanently …

He shook himself out of his daydream. He got up and opened one of the floor-length windows instead, to air out the room.  
How many evenings they had spent leaning against the glass, watching the first stars come out. They had talked of the places where people could map the planets, and believed that Hellas could get there someday. 

Thinking of that now, he couldn’t stay in the ballroom any longer. It was like a room of lost things, where the happiest of memories lay, only he could not seem to grasp them with his fingers. 

He walked out, into the gardens beyond, and down the pathway that took him away from the river. His feet carried him to the other houses, the ones he had used to wonder about - such large buildings, for guests who never came. 

Perhaps Achilles had had something different in mind when he’d built House Pelides. Hadn’t he mentioned there was nowhere to look for loyalty? Perhaps he hadn’t known that, when he’d first come into power. 

He walked past each house, seeing the one Glaucus had stayed in and imagining the man waving at him from the window as he used to do. 

And before he knew it, he was standing in front of the very last house. The one that faced away from the others, too far from the river. 

It was completely deserted. The servants did not come here, and the guards didn’t even patrol the perimeters at night. They knew there would be nobody there. 

Without thinking, Patroclus opened the front door, hearing it creak; the hinges long rusted. Its layout was just the same as the other guesthouses - familiar stone floor, dark-colored rugs and soft curtains. It was not as well-lit. The lamps were long in disuse, and the staircase railing was covered in dust, a few scuff marks that no one had bothered to cover.

He swiped at the dust with his finger. Downstairs were the kitchen, dining area and main receiving room, he knew. He had never really used those rooms when he was still a guest himself. Upstairs would be the bedrooms, perhaps a study that was large enough to house a small library. 

He went up the stairs, looking out the window at the parts of the gardens he rarely saw. It was wild out there, brambles and brush, an untamed forest compared to the well-kept gardens he was used to. 

Someone had written _hello_ in the thick grime on the window, and for some reason it made him shiver. 

The stairs were hollow beneath his shoes; he hurried up them, not wanting to hear that noise of strained wood - and the corridors were completely different than what he’d imagined. 

Dark colors, so much that he could not see where he was going - and a strange smell, a faint whiff of flowers - he looked in the corners and saw bouquets that had long dried up. 

Why hadn’t they been thrown out? he wondered. 

Some of the doors were open and he peeked into them. Empty rooms, mostly, or furniture covered in sheets. Why didn’t Achilles turn this house into something else? He knew some of the other unused guesthouses were servants’ dormitories or storage areas. This one was just forgotten. 

One of the doors was closed - he opened it, thinking to peer inside and leave it be. 

And he stopped, because the room was unlike any other in the house. It was bright, the windows wide open, and fully-furnished. He opened the door wider and hesitated, stepping in. 

It almost seemed like somebody lived here. But it was empty, and he could tell from the yellowed wallpaper and dusty rug that it had been ages since it was occupied. This was not a room just for a guest. All the colors, the furniture, the ornaments - they had been carefully picked out to suit someone’s taste. 

The bed in the corner was half-heartedly made, as though someone had just thrown the covers over it after getting out of bed. There were connecting rooms, like an apartment. It did not smell stuffy like the rest of the house. 

What a sweet, cheerful room it was, yet he could not stop that sinking feeling, all the way to his toes. 

There was a large mirror and a vanity against one wall. He walked up to it, and went still, that feeling inside him deepening. 

Someone had been getting ready, it seemed, because there was a tiny pot of powder still half-open, the powder puff sticking out. He could smell its floral scent, even this far away. 

There was a hairbrush, with strands of hair still in it. He looked in the mirror and wondered who had been right here, seeing their own reflection instead of his. 

He felt like he was intruding - as though this person would walk in any minute, seeing him look through their things. He dared not touch anything - perhaps he should leave. 

He straightened and made for the door, but his knee bumped against the vanity, making it shake. 

The hairbrush fell to the floor with a clattering sound.

The loudness of it made him startle, and he quickly bent and picked it back up, not wanting to disturb the room any further. 

Then he stopped, squinting down at the engraving on the back of the hairbrush. 

It made his hand come up to his collar out of habit - for it was rather like the protector’s symbol, only instead of twin swords, there was an axe and a shield - the symbol of the House of Atreus - and the owner’s initial carved at the bottom. 

And he knew who the room belonged to. 

The little princess, who had smiled at him in the hallway when they were children. 

He suddenly felt his head spinning, and he bent over to get his bearings. 

All this _time_. And he had never known. 

Barely a few minutes away from where he lived, Iphigenia had been kept here. She had died only a few months before his arrival in Olympia. 

Dead and gone. Yet this room was clearly hers, the scent of her powder and her _hair_ \- he backed away from the vanity. 

Her presence here was left behind, little things of who she had been. A room of lost things. 

There was something in his soul, just then, breaking away. Mourning for someone he’d never really known; for a moment of connection in a distant past life.  
Had she leaned out her window the way he did, come summer when the flowers changed colors?  
Had she wished to hear the river?  
Had she had someone to look out for her like he’d had Chryseis?  
Had she been completely alone? 

So many questions, about someone he hadn’t thought about, someone he never would have guessed he would think of. Someone from a vanished royal house, so quickly forgotten as though they had never existed. 

Here was proof that they had. Here was proof that even lost things, and lost people, had a footprint on the earth. Even when the rain washed it away, the mud marring the delicate shape - it did not mean the footprint had never been there in the first place.  
\---

He did not think he would get that piece of his soul back, even when he was out of the house, not looking back. He had left it in that room with the rest.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was late at night, and Achilles was not back yet. 

He waited next to Korax for a while, then went down into the kitchen to eat something. 

Things had been so strained between them, he thought he would choke when he tried to speak. But he was determined to do it this time. What he would say, he didn’t know yet. Only that he felt his heart would collapse in his chest if they carried on like this. 

He could not bear it, he thought. That disappointed look on Achilles’ face that he had not been able to answer him. Even after everything, he still hated making the man upset - a silent guilt, that he was the one who had ruined things. But would anything be better if he had gone on, blissfully ignorant? 

“Hello,” came a voice, and he turned around. 

Glaucus stood in the doorway, looking abashed. 

“Glaucus -”

“Sorry I yelled at you the other day!” Glaucus blurted out, a jumble of words.  
He reached into his pocket and brought out a parcel wrapped in paper.  
“I brought you some cake.”

“Oh! I, well, thank -”

“Actually, I ate most of it, and I’m very sorry about that, Chryseis was teaching me how to make it, and I forgot that it was for you, so now I feel like a terrible friend because I can’t even do a peace offering properly. But I saved you a piece!” 

Patroclus bit his lip hard, his eyes stinging all of a sudden. 

“Please don’t be upset!” Glaucus cried in alarm. “Here, I promise it tastes good!” 

He unwrapped it, revealing a square piece of spice cake studded with dried fruit, and shoved it in Patroclus’ hand.  
“Oh, I’m sorry, Patroclus! I said stupid things and made you feel bad. Don’t feel bad anymore.” 

“It’s not that,” Patroclus said, blinking hard and holding the cake in his hand.  
“Everything’s wrong, Glaucus. Everything’s wrong, and I don’t know what to do about it.” 

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Glaucus said, firmly, his face fixed in a determined frown as though it was a chant he could use to convince them both. 

“What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I get everything right in my head?” And his eyes blurred, one hot tear rolling down his face.

Glaucus pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to Patroclus wordlessly.

He dabbed at his face, then saw that the handkerchief had the words _Please Don’t Take My Cinnamon! Game of the Year_ bordered around it. 

“What -”

“I thought we could have some merchandise for it. If we decide to sell,” Glaucus admitted, sounding extremely embarrassed. 

And then Patroclus snorted with laughter, tears still rolling down his cheeks, and he wiped them away - then he started laughing again when he saw the clearly homemade stitching on Glaucus’ handkerchief. 

“Glaucus,” he said. “I’m so glad Polyxena hired you to spy on Paris.”  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The crescent moon shone above him, yellow around the edges. 

A witch’s moon, he’d heard once. And he remembered one in his mother’s storybook, illustrated clearly over the tale of a witch who flew up to the moon for a magic spell. 

He’d often wondered what spell it was, that was worth flying to the moon for.  
Eternal youth? Endless riches? Fame beyond all measure? Or perhaps it was something closer to the heart, like an antidote to heal a loved one. 

He clutched Diomedes’ food package to his chest, the aroma of fish and spices and roast potatoes filling his senses. Glaucus had the right idea, he thought. A peace offering. 

Diomedes wasn’t often around after dark, but Chryseis had insisted he would be here tonight. So he wrapped the food up, and went outside to catch the man when he arrived. 

He saw a dark figure walking across the grass, and from its hulking shape he figured it was Diomedes. 

But the man was walking _away_ from the house, not towards. 

“Diomedes!” he called, but was not heard. 

He jogged after him, holding the package carefully. Diomedes’ legs were so long he could walk faster than Patroclus could catch up.

He lost track of the man, and stood in the middle of the grass, wondering which direction he’d gone to. 

Then he saw him again, making his way down the road and into the streets, where Chryseis had brought him once to see the temple of Hestia. 

He stopped calling and started following Diomedes instead, senses on high alert. 

Perhaps this was what he’d been waiting for. Something he hadn’t been able to observe during the daytime when he had followed the other man. His key to what the man knew. A step towards those lost people he couldn’t let go of. 

It was not easy staying on Diomedes’ trail in the dark, the man moved quickly and with a purpose. There was something important he was heading towards, Patroclus knew it. 

They went past narrow cobbled streets, past the shops, and through back alleys. Finally they came to a more residential area, and he had to pause and take in his surroundings, because he hadn’t even known there were neighborhoods within walking distance of House Pelides’ grounds. Even if _walking_ distance was a far stretch, considering how long they’d been walking. 

The houses in the neighborhood were modest, low roofs and small gates, many of them well-lit.  
Some people were still outside, sitting in front of their houses and smoking from pipes, low chatter all around. It was a peaceful place. 

Diomedes had stopped in front of a house with the gate wide open. 

Patroclus hung back, standing behind a lamppost as he saw the people there. 

A matronly woman had come up to the open gate to greet Diomedes. They exchanged a few words, which Patroclus couldn’t hear. But he saw Diomedes hand the woman an envelope - enough to fit a sizable sum of money, he thought. 

He was frowning at this, trying to guess at what it was all about, when the door to the house flew open and a small child ran out. Patroclus craned his neck to get a closer look, the shock filling him to his core - surely he was seeing things wrong. He had thought for a moment that it was ...

But even staring closely, the resemblance was uncanny. This was a little _boy_ , not a girl. 

But he had the same face - Iphigenia’s face, the face of her siblings. The same hair, the same coloring. 

The matron took the little boy’s hand and pulled him away just as Diomedes turned to leave. 

Patroclus’ thoughts swam frantically in circles. 

Five … five years. The little boy couldn’t be older than five or six. Iphigenia had died a little over five years ago. He tried to piece it together in his head. It seemed all wrong. 

It had to be all wrong, hadn’t it? The line of Atreus had ended with the deaths of the royal children. Unless … 

He shrank back as Diomedes walked past, legs folding underneath him behind the lamppost, holding onto a fence for support. Achilles had always said he’d destroyed the royal house. Why would he lie? 

And Diomedes … Diomedes was tasked with taking care of Achilles’ affairs. Perhaps this was another one. 

Patroclus thought he would be sick, in that unfamiliar neighborhood on the edge of Olympia.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was a lone lamp on the table, flickering anxiously. 

He thought the rapid movements matched his own blood flow, the way his pulse raced so erratically. 

His fingers were pressed against his mouth, trying to work the words in there, trying to gather the courage. The knuckles were bright white.

In the corner, Korax stared at him, head up and alert. It was the quietest he ever was, for an already quiet dog. He sensed something was wrong. 

The door swung open, making Patroclus jump nearly out of his skin. 

He had waited in Achilles’ study for nearly an hour, not knowing when the man would be back. But it was always here that Achilles spent his evenings, if he even made it back in a timely manner.

Achilles hadn’t noticed him and strode up to his desk, tossing some papers on to it. His forehead was scrunched up; his eyes tired. 

“I -” Patroclus got out, hearing his voice tremble. 

Achilles whirled around. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked, but he didn’t sound upset. 

“I -” Patroclus said again, and covered his mouth with his fingers. His insides were shriveling up inside him. He didn’t even feel like a real person, just a part of the floor or the upholstery. 

“How long were you waiting?” Achilles questioned, and did sound distressed, this time. 

He went up to Patroclus, kneeling carefully, a worried frown on his face. 

“Was it very long?”

Patroclus moved his mouth but the words _would not come_. 

“What?” Achilles said, and reached his arms slowly around Patroclus, coming to rest on his shoulders. 

The wary, tentative movement made Patroclus look away, any direction but Achilles’ face. 

The silence stretched out; he could hear nothing but his own shallow breathing, and see Achilles’ face growing more concerned out of the corner of his eye. 

Gods, that face. 

He was going to fall apart into a thousand pieces if he spoke. 

“Patroclus.” And Achilles’ voice _shook_ , the damage of the past week clearly having been done. 

“What can I do?” he asked, after a moment.  
“What can I do to mend this between us?”

Patroclus met his eyes for a split second, and it was too much.  
“I don’t know,” he whispered. 

“Just tell me what to do. I’ll do it.” 

“I want to know,” Patroclus said, and the last word was strained, and he couldn’t look at Achilles anymore. 

“What? What do you want?”

“I want to know how long you kept her for.” 

And Hestia, the words _burned_ , sliding out of him like glass scraping against his flesh. 

Achilles had fallen still, and he knew. He knew the other man recognized who he was talking about. 

“You went into the house.” 

“It was right there, all this while, and I never bothered to go in. Why am I so _stupid_?” Patroclus demanded, and scrubbed at his eyes. 

Achilles sat back on his heels, and looked down.

“You’re not.” He swallowed. “I never told you about it.” 

“Her things were still there.” 

Achilles nodded. “I had them left as they were.” 

Patroclus had nothing to say to that. He could’ve asked why, but he wasn’t sure he would have done different. There had been something about that room, deliberately left undisturbed. 

He moved his lips again, his tongue, struggling to find what he had needed to ask Achilles. 

“The boy.”

Achilles looked up, clearly not having expected that. He looked at Patroclus for a while, with an odd expression. 

“His name is Adrastus.” 

Patroclus took a deep breath.

“Is he -” he swallowed hard again, wetting his mouth.  
“Is he your son?”

That look faded away, replaced by a sharp stare. Achilles seemed so taken aback he could not answer for a moment. 

“What did you say?” he asked, softly.

“Is Adrastus your son?”

He saw Achilles bite his lip, and his heart began to sink.

Achilles’ brows were drawn together, studying Patroclus seriously. 

“What would you do if I said it was?”

Patroclus didn’t know. _He didn’t know_. 

Achilles continued studying him, calmly; soberly. 

“Would you leave me?” he asked, his voice level. But underneath it was a faint fear - listen hard enough, and the smallest trace could be detected. 

“How can you ask me that?” Patroclus frowned.  
“I don’t even know what happened with her. Did you love her? Did you …” and he pressed his lips together. “Force her?”  
Even now, he wasn’t sure if he believed Achilles was capable of such a thing.

Achilles exhaled hard, and shifted so he was sitting on the floor. 

“No, my love,” he said. 

His face was so unsettled Patroclus had the abrupt urge to reach out to him.

“He is not my son.”

Patroclus’ hand uncurled itself, the knuckles relaxing a little. 

“But look at what I’ve done,” Achilles continued, looking at the floor.  
“Apparently I’ve broken your trust so completely that you believed I could have a secret like that, and allowed you to find out in a way that could hurt you so.”

“You …” And Patroclus nearly forgot himself, the breath of air releasing from him like the breaking of a wave.  
“You kept her presence here a secret.” 

“Yes,” Achilles replied.  
“Perhaps I should have said to you - by the way, darling, now that I have you and we have started our life together; the princess I executed was kept prisoner in that house over there. She’s been dead for a while. But feel free to walk in and have a look anytime.” 

It sounded so ridiculous, even though Achilles was doing anything but joking. 

“Then whose -” 

Achilles sighed again, and leaned his head back, closing his eyes. 

“She was here for a long time. She and Diomedes became rather close.”  
There was a hint of anger there, in his voice. 

“I knew nothing about it until it was too late. To imagine that Diomedes had -”  
Achilles paused, having to compose himself.  
“He _knew_ what it meant to me, to have the royal house abolished. And he still …” 

There was a resentment there, one that had been restrained for years. 

Patroclus hesitated. Whatever this was, it was between Achilles and Diomedes. 

They sat there in the quiet, letting the air settle between them.

After a moment, Achilles eyed him.

“Is it unforgivable?” he asked. “Everything that’s happened?”

Patroclus searched for an answer. 

“Do you hate me?” Achilles pressed.

Patroclus shook his head. This he did have an answer to.

“No,” he said. 

He met Achilles’ gaze.  
“I love you.”

He thought there was a flicker of relief, there.

He tried for it.  
“Will you let those people go?” 

He held his breath as the seconds passed.

How immediate it was. The way Achilles’ expression shut down immediately. He didn’t even have to answer. 

“This is truly what you’re going to do,” Patroclus voiced. 

“It is,” Achilles replied.

Patroclus let out a breath, distraught.  
“You _know_ some of those people don’t deserve to be there.” 

“Are we going to have this argument again?” Achilles demanded.  
“These are the decisions I have to make. I cannot tell you what it is to be in my shoes - perhaps you would do far better.” 

He cupped one hand around Patroclus’ face.  
“You would,” he said again, gently. 

“But I have gotten this far, and one _slip_ -”  
His face screwed up then, his hand coming down to trace the part of Patroclus’ throat, where the cut had sealed over, invisible.  
“Ruling a country is like having a blade at your throat. And some wounds do not _heal_. They keep bleeding, and bleeding, no matter how much I try to stop it. Do you see, Patroclus? I cannot allow the cut to go that deep. _I never will_.” 

Patroclus saw. 

“I don’t know what to do, Achilles,” he replied. 

He was so _tired_. 

“I wish I did.”

He’d been asked who he was. And now, he was starting to find out. 

But as always; his eternal dilemma. 

Heart and mind. Which would he listen to? 

This time, one of them had to win.


	25. Chapter 25

That first summer in Hellas, Chryseis had hosted picnics - they would stretch out on the grass, surrounded by aromatic dishes. The smell of fresh bread, roasted meats, and buttery white wine had mingled with the outdoors - it had been a sort of heaven, Patroclus remembered thinking; having the sun warm against the back of his head, but never too hot that he couldn’t look up at the sky and make out shapes in the clouds. 

Now he and Glaucus sat on the steps of the clocktower, eating a modest lunch. It had been a cold and wet spring and Patroclus didn’t know when he could expect blue sky again. He had found himself leaving House Pelides more often than he’d ever done in the past years; if only to get away from the beloved grounds, to clear his mind from the bonds that attached him there. 

What was it about himself that so feared leaving the walls? Was it something that had been bred in him, enclosed within the palace all his life? An illusion of comfort, and safety. The truth was, he was no safer at home than he was out here in a public plaza. For nothing could protect the mind from the truths all around him. 

He thought Glaucus had learned it too, looking at the other man now. Glaucus hardly ever mingled with the aristocrats anymore. He had adjusted so well to life among the common people that he spent all his time out and about, making new acquaintances in every social circle he came across, and gathering information from as many different sources as he could. 

“You remember I said there was more to the story?” Glaucus brought up. 

“About the soldiers?” 

“Yes. Apparently there is a faction dedicated to the patrolling of the outer regions. But it’s incredibly hard to get reliable information on them.” Glaucus looked around, making sure they were really alone. “There is talk that they do not report to the official military.” 

“Then who would they report to?” 

Glaucus pursed his lips. “Have you ever heard of the secret police?”

Patroclus was quiet, taking this in.   
“No.” 

“According to my source, their operations are responsible for the interrogations of suspicious individuals. But that’s not the only thing they do. They have spies among the general public to gather intelligence. It’s something the aristocracy will not acknowledge.” 

“You’re saying their main goal is to find out if anyone is conspiring with enemies of the state?” 

Glaucus nodded. “Like I said, hard to pinpoint their whereabouts or how they operate, exactly. But if we can get insider information, it might be our first step to locating the prisoners at Crisa.” 

This was news to Patroclus. He’d been wracking his brain over what could possibly be done to recover those people, so well-concealed in a part of the country where no one ventured. 

“And family members?” he inquired. “Any new leads on people who might still be looking too?” 

“I’m working on it,” Glaucus confirmed. 

“I may not have a secret police to get the job done quickly,” Patroclus allowed.   
“But I know there’s one thing we can do.”

“What is it?” 

“We need to get Briseis out of prison,” Patroclus stated, sounding more confident than he felt.

“Oh, boy,” Glaucus said, wiping the condensation off his brow.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sunlight filtered through the curtains, beaming right into his face and onto the bookshelves around him. He groaned and stretched, back aching from a night on the hard floor, only a pillow and blanket for comfort. He had fallen asleep in the library again - his eyes hurt from squinting at tiny print for hours on end. 

He had gotten a hold of city laws and procedures, and was studying up on how best to have Briseis released. After inquiring about her again, he found out she had been moved to the Olympia State Prison. This was not good - once she left police headquarters, it would become less likely that she could get out of the charges she faced. 

Three charges. He sighed. One for trespassing on private property, one for assault, and another for resisting arrest. Only _one_ of which she had actually committed. This was going to be very tricky indeed. 

He heard Korax heave a large sigh next to him, and it made him smile.   
His shadow, he thought fondly, for the dog followed him wherever he went in the house.   
So many afternoons spent chasing the little rascal through the hallways - and now he was a grown dog and far too lazy to run around any longer. Korax’s favorite activity, in fact, was taking naps in places where people could trip over him if they weren’t looking. 

“Hungry, old boy?” he asked, scratching Korax behind his velvety ears.   
“Fancy a piece of sausage?” 

He got up, groaning again, hearing his back give a loud crack. Then he went downstairs to get some sustenance. It was no use trying to study all day on an empty stomach. Suddenly, he missed the days when he’d woken up with a hot breakfast on a tray.

Nowadays, he went down to the kitchen and ate anything that was available. The cooks made whatever they pleased and he would eat it. They knew him well enough not to fuss with setting tables or serving. It almost reminded him of the palace in Troy and how Evander had been with meals. 

No nonsense, simple foods. He had liked eating in the kitchen so much more than dining with Paris.   
\---

He was feeding Korax some bits of sausage when the back door opened and Diomedes came in from the alleyway. They avoided each other’s eyes, at first. Patroclus was somewhat ashamed that he had invaded the other man’s privacy, believing it to be another matter entirely. He didn’t know why, but he no longer doubted Diomedes had been telling him the truth the entire time. 

He had no proof - simply that those had not been the words of a man who was in it for personal gain. 

Korax went over to greet Diomedes immediately - and the man bent over to pat him on the head. Patroclus was left sitting in uncomfortable silence, wishing he could disappear into the wall, or melt into the floor. 

“You ought to tell Glaucus to be careful,” Diomedes said, softly.   
But it still made Patroclus start.   
“Poking around with the secret police like that - he can be clever when he wants to be, but it doesn’t change the fact that he is not trained in espionage. _They are_.”

“I …” Patroclus hesitated. “I don’t mean to put Glaucus in any danger. If it is too much, I will ask him to stop.” 

Diomedes smirked a little, then.   
“No guarantee it’ll work. You know how Glaucus is.” 

He was right, of course. Glaucus might have jumped to help both Polyxena and Patroclus, but that was because he considered them friends. The man was no pushover. 

“... What do you know about the secret police?” Patroclus asked, after a while. 

Diomedes shrugged.   
“I don’t consort with them very often. They give Achilles the information he needs to locate a known threat. Then I get the call. We draft up a contract, and I begin my search abroad. I have no direct contact with them.” 

There was a silence, and Patroclus contemplated hard on what he had wanted to say. What he hadn’t dared say, for the past few days.   
“You said you … you said it was never about the money.”

Diomedes gave him a sharp look, and he was sure the man knew about what he had found out. 

“I give myself no excuses,” Diomedes replied, when a few minutes had passed.   
“I stopped fooling myself a long time ago. From the very first person I hunted down and killed … to the last. I remember all of their names. I remember all of their faces. And I remember what they said, right before I took their lives.” 

Patroclus shuddered. 

“It was not right,” Diomedes continued. “But I did what I had to do. Anything Achilles asked, I would do. If it meant …”

“Your son,” Patroclus whispered, and it fell silent again. 

It had been on his mind for a while. Why exactly Achilles had kept Adrastus a secret. 

It was not merely out of shame, that the last blood of the Atreidae remained. Diomedes was not a man who was easily controlled - he was perhaps Achilles’ harshest critic, and saw right through him and all of his ideals. If the pieces had fallen differently, perhaps Diomedes would never have continued supporting him in his one-man regime over Hellas. 

But the boy - proof that Diomedes had a heart, and it could be used against him just like any other person. Achilles kept Adrastus around for leverage, to ensure Diomedes’ loyalty. He knew the man would do anything he wanted as long as the boy was kept safe. 

It kept Patroclus awake at night. It was the reason he couldn’t quite look at Achilles the same way anymore. 

It was not about all the half-truths and enigmas he’d had to unravel himself. At the end of the day, Achilles had never been afraid of telling him the truth. The man had never been one for pretenses - the Achilles he had met, the Achilles he had come to know, the Achilles he had fallen in love with - these were all part of him. Achilles would never shy away from admitting what he had done, because he truly believed it would lead him to the Hellas he so desired. 

He was a man who loved his country - and a man who would not stop at anything to achieve his goals. All this, Patroclus had loved about him. Now, all this, he feared. 

He looked at Diomedes. 

“Tell me I’m wrong.” 

Diomedes frowned. 

“Tell me those people deserved to die. Tell me …” he bit his lip hard. 

He didn’t know what he was looking for. Some confirmation, from someone who knew Achilles best, that everything he had done so far had been a mistake. 

“Tell me that I should go back to his side, and close my eyes to it all, and it would be the right thing.” 

“I cannot tell you that,” Diomedes said, gently. 

Patroclus lowered his head. 

“I am the wrong person to ask,” Diomedes added. 

“Is there a right one?” Patroclus questioned, and laughed a little, sadly. 

He peered up at Diomedes. The man so rarely said his name. So rarely said the name of the prince. He could only remember it happening a handful of times in the past. And this was someone who had Achilles’ trust, even if it was a trust that relied on that little boy with Iphigenia’s face. 

Achilles and Diomedes had a history. And he couldn’t help but wonder if Achilles trusted Diomedes enough to divulge one secret that had never been revealed to anyone else. It would tell him exactly what he needed to know about the extent of control Achilles had over someone he called his friend. 

“You know who I am,” Patroclus guessed. 

The look Diomedes gave him in return … 

“He really doesn’t think you would ever go against him.” 

“Because I won’t.” 

“Would he really hurt him?” Patroclus asked, afraid of the answer. “Your son?” 

Diomedes grimaced.   
“That is something I will never risk finding out.” 

It did not give Patroclus any reprieve, hearing that.   
Sometimes he thought he really would suffocate, all the thoughts drifting around in his disquieted mind.   
He hadn’t even written to Polyxena in weeks. He didn’t know what he would say to her.

_So you’ve gone and fallen in love with a revolutionary_ , she had said. 

At the time he’d been too naive to think of the meaning behind the words.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

His eyelids were heavy again, a mess of papers on the table around him. If it had been during working hours, the cook would surely tell him off for bringing his materials into the kitchen. But he’d thought the bright lights would help him concentrate. 

Someone slid a piece of candy onto the table in front of him, and he turned round to see Chryseis. 

“Something sweet? For a burst of energy,” she said, that same twinkle in her eye like she knew something he didn’t. 

“These aren’t the storybooks you picked out for me to learn about the countryside,” Patroclus sighed, unwrapping the candy. 

The smell of the sugar woke him up a little, at least. 

“You’ve come a long way since then,” Chryseis pointed out, hands on her hips as she surveyed what he was studying.   
“This is not Geometry for Schoolchildren, either.” 

“Don’t remind me,” Patroclus laughed. He’d missed their conversations. 

Chryseis cocked her head to one side.   
“You can help this girl,” she said. 

“I don’t even know what I’m doing. What if I’m doing it all wrong?”

“Oh, Paris,” Chryseis sighed. “You’ve been studying nonstop for days on the most unstimulating topic imaginable - _law_. I don’t know anyone else who would do that for someone they barely know. Take my word for it; _you can help this girl_.” 

“Perhaps you could tell me if there is a shortcut? Surely an easier way that has slipped past me all this while?”

“We are dealing with the city of Olympia. It has never been kind to transgressors who go against the government. Don’t tell me you’ve read all these documents and haven’t learned anything.” 

“There are just so many _rules_ ,” Patroclus groaned.   
“Some that have been in place since the time of the Atreidae. If I slip up, I could condemn her for an even longer sentence.” 

Chryseis laughed.   
“You’re starting to sound like my mentor at the library. That’s how you know you’re on the right track.”

“If I were a different person,” Patroclus started. “I would swoop in and help her escape from the dungeon. I would utilize my lockpicking skills and we’d ride into the sunset while the police chased after us.” 

“I’ve always thought those kinds of heroes were somewhat unrealistic,” Chryseis huffed.   
“And _irresponsible_. Do you know what her life would be like, as an escaped convict on the run? She would never be able to show her face anywhere.” 

“I’m not any kind of hero,” Patroclus replied, regretfully.   
“I’m just the kind of weakling who has to open a book in order to get her out of prison.” 

“The best kind,” Chryseis smiled, and patted his shoulder.   
“Knowledge is one thing. _Using_ it is another. And I trust you’ll find a way, as you always do.”

Patroclus didn’t know whether to believe it or not. Yes, he had learned much since his first days in Olympia. But that didn’t erase the fact that he was only mediocre at everything he did.   
From playing the piano to reading to riding a horse. He could get by. But getting by was not enough. 

How was he supposed to challenge the government? The government that was controlled by Achilles, who was his superior in every way? 

But he wouldn’t stop working, he knew. Even if he had to do it the hard way, he would not stop trying. He had set his heart on freeing Briseis and by the gods, he was not going to disappoint her.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I’m not ready,” Patroclus voiced. He had started to sweat a little. It wasn’t even _hot_ , yet he was stuffy under his collar. 

“You’re ready,” Glaucus insisted. 

“I’m not. I’ll mess it all up. What am I _doing_ here, Glaucus?”

“You have a nearly foolproof case. Briseis is relying on you.” 

“They’re never going to let her go.” 

“Look, the judge has arrived!” Glaucus pointed out, trying to sound cheerful.   
“You’ve got this, Pa -” he looked around, dropping to a whisper. “Patroclus.” 

Patroclus got up, rechecking his files over and over again.   
“What if I forgot something?” 

“You shut that brain of yours up. Now go!” Glaucus shooed him off, and he found himself walking down the corridor alone, into the small courtroom where he would present his case to the judge. 

It was not even a trial, merely a hearing where he had put in the request for Briseis to be granted a temporary release. But he was still unbelievably nervous. 

He tried not to make eye contact with Briseis, who was standing with chains around her ankles and wrists. 

“Is this really necessary?” he asked the officer who was escorting her. 

“Standard procedure,” the officer replied gruffly. 

The judge took his seat, and spent a few agonizing minutes looking over the files Patroclus had submitted. 

It was really a simple process; first, Patroclus had been required to turn in any evidentiary support for the judge to review. Then, he would be given a few minutes to present sound reasoning for Briseis’ release. The judge would make a decision there and then. It would not take more than an hour. 

The downside was - if the judge decided _not_ to grant Briseis her release, they could not request another hearing.

“Alright - I’ve reviewed and will continue referring back to the evidence throughout our time here. Please come forward and state your name and business,” the judge announced. 

This was it.

Patroclus approached the judge’s bench, willing his hands not to start fidgeting.   
“Paris, of the House of Priam. Representing Briseis of Pedasus on account of temporary release from Olympia State Prison.” 

The judge gave a nod, and it was Patroclus’ signal to start his speech.

“I will speak as briefly as I can on the points I need to discuss. First - the city of Olympia has charged the lady on three counts; trespassing, assault, and resistance against arrest. My purpose here is not to refute these charges. Rather, I appeal on behalf of the lady for the court to recognize her right as a citizen.”

“A request for temporary release has not been utilized for several years, Paris of House Priam.”   
It was not uncommon for the judge to interrupt when he saw fit, as Patroclus had learned.   
“Why now and not to wait until an official trial?” 

“Your honor - more than a month ago, Briseis of Pedasus arrived at the residence of Achilles Pelides. Her objective was, in fact, to inquire the whereabouts of her father. Hellene law states that no unmarried person is allowed to stand trial without a head of house. As Lord Pedasus serves this position, his daughter will not be able to submit a defense without his approval.”

Silence, and he knew he should continue. 

“Upon temporary release, the lady will pursue two main objectives; the first, to gather evidence and select witnesses in preparation for her final defense. The second, to locate her father who will represent House Pedasus. In light of this, I pose the question; is it not the city’s duty to allow good citizens the opportunity for clearing their names? As you have seen - the lady does not have a history of criminal behavior. She is the only daughter of Lord Pedasus and will likely take his place as head of house in the near future. To deny her this right not only denies her the chance to serve her city - it also invalidates a tradition that has lasted for centuries. If the lady was any other citizen - one with no prospects, and without the fate of a region lying upon this decision - perhaps it would be fair to hold her in contempt. But this minor offense holds lasting consequences; for she is no ordinary citizen, but a noble daughter with responsibilities to both state and household. I appeal to you, your honor, to consider these terms. And I trust that your decision will be made not only for what is just; but what is reasonable to expect of a future head of house.” 

He let out a huge breath when he was done, while trying to stay composed. He could feel Briseis’ eyes on his back the whole time. 

The judge was given a few minutes to review the documents again - and then it was time to make a decision.

“You present a sound argument … my only concern is who will stand in supervision of the accused, upon her temporary release? For you are not a citizen of Hellas - and therefore, you cannot act as her sponsor.” 

Patroclus had anticipated this. He was so _glad_ he had read the law books thoroughly. 

And he was so relieved there had been someone willing to help after all. 

“Your honor, I call upon Chryseis, daughter of Chryses, for this purpose.” 

Chryseis, who had been sitting quietly in the back, stood up and approached the judge’s bench. 

“You are willing to act as supervisor to this woman?” the judge questioned. 

“I am willing, your honor,” said Chryseis, calmly. 

“Then I will approve this request - on condition that the accused utilizes her time wisely. I will initiate a monthly inspection to observe the progression of her case - if there is no advancement, she will be due for a second hearing. And I would highly advise the accused not to leave the city boundaries.”   
With this, the judge cast a stern look at Briseis. 

Patroclus swore he could have doubled over with relief. Yes, it had been a good case, but who could tell whether anything would go wrong? After all, he was an inexperienced non-citizen, not a trained attorney. 

The judge left the room, and then Briseis was led away for a final inspection before her release. 

Patroclus finally allowed himself to meet her gaze - she managed a small smile in his direction. 

“You did it!” Glaucus exclaimed, appearing out of nowhere and making Patroclus jump.   
“You did it, you did it! Chryseis, did you _see_ that?”   
He hugged Patroclus tight and nearly lifted him off his feet. 

Chryseis was silent, but the smile on her face said all Patroclus needed to hear. 

“You see?” she whispered, taking his arm confidentially.   
“Sometimes the hard way pays off.” 

“How can I thank you?” he asked her.   
“You don’t know Briseis. You didn’t have to agree to supervise her release.”

And indeed, if Chryseis had _not_ agreed, there would have been no one else and Briseis would have rotted in prison. 

There was another risk as well, one neither of them wanted to acknowledge - if Achilles knew Chryseis was doing this, she could very well lose her job. 

Chryseis gave a small scoff.   
“You remind me of someone. Someone who never believed in violence, but was brave enough to pursue his own path.” 

“Oh …”   
He touched his chest, because she had _no idea_ how much it meant to him to hear that. 

To be compared to her late father, an extraordinary man who had helped the revolution. 

Perhaps in theory, they were on different sides. But just for a moment, the gap could be bridged, one leaning against the other for strength.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It felt good to play again, he thought, feeling the smoothness of the ivory under his fingers. Once he could get into the flow of it again, his rusty skills were improved. This piece was the closest he had ever come to playing Achilles’ flying song. Not quite the tune of victory, but a slow climb towards the high notes that made him feel as light as air. 

It echoed around the ballroom, and he wondered if this was as close to the space between sleeping and waking as one could get, while wide awake. A liminal space of sorts, much like the crossroads - and wasn’t that where he was stuck anyway? Why not have some music to accompany him? 

“How beautiful.” 

He turned around, seeing Achilles standing not quite a foot away. 

His arms came to a standstill - there was a lurch in his chest, seeing that figure framed that way - if he looked hard enough, he almost saw Achilles the way he had first seen him; leaning over the piano, watching his feeble attempts. 

Back when he’d known nothing. Back in the beginning. 

And how many beginnings they’d had. Was this another one?

He said nothing, waiting for Achilles to speak again. 

But there was only that look - and he felt his heart rearrange itself, finding its beat again, drawn to Achilles’ every footstep as he approached. 

“It is far from perfect,” he found himself saying. 

Achilles’ lip twitched - it was the closest to a laugh he’d seen in a while. 

“If it was perfection I wanted, I would not have taught you.”   
He looked Patroclus in the eye.   
“There is value in playing for the sheer joy of it. And that passion - I saw that in you from the first.” 

“Do you regret it now?” Patroclus asked. 

What a low ache, as though someone had tied a stone to the bottom of his heart and it was slowly toppling over. 

Achilles sighed. It was a defeated sound, like someone who had woken up to fight a battle everyday, only to find out the war had already been lost. 

“Give me a minute.” 

And Patroclus did. Because they were going to have this conversation, and neither had the strength for it. 

He looked down at Achilles’ hand on the bench beside him, and could feel the tingles in his own, wanting to inch over and touch that hand. 

But then it would be lost - everything he had been steeling himself for, it would all be lost. He knew if he touched Achilles now, he would give in.   
_I was wrong_ , he would say. _I’ll always be right beside you, no matter what you do_.

And they would live out their lives, and those names he was so desperate to find would remain forgotten. 

There would be a special room in the house just for lost things, like the dead princess’s room, and they would shut the door, lock it, and throw away the key. 

And he would live his life knowing that terrible secret. Whatever became of his soul, he would not know. 

Then Achilles straightened, and his expression hardened. 

“You set her free.”

“I did,” Patroclus replied, willing his voice to remain steady. 

Achilles turned to look at him. 

“When I explicitly told you _not to_.” 

“I am not your citizen. You cannot order me as you please.” 

“You are not a citizen, and have no influence over court proceedings.”

“What I did was perfectly legal. Ask anyone there. Just as I would ask whoever presided over your capturing of innocent people. Only there is _no one to ask_.”

“You say they are innocent. I say they are not. So it is your word against mine; and who is going to support the word of someone who has no involvement in the ruling of this country?” 

“If you would only give them a chance!” Patroclus exclaimed, standing up.   
“If you would only give _me_ a chance. I could work with them, I could prove their innocence. There is another way, Achilles. You do not have to stifle voices as a means to an end.” 

Achilles’ mouth was pressed so tight, he could have been a statue of marble. 

“You would be working yourself to death. I do not know what has come over you, to sympathize with _criminals_.”

And there was that look again, confused disappointment. 

Achilles genuinely _did not know_ why Patroclus was doing this. He had gone into this expecting someone at his side, only to come out with the opposite. 

They had truly never been meant to be together - but someone, perhaps the Fates of some old belief, had cast their lot. And it was too late. 

The silence was ever more painful, the longer Patroclus thought of this. 

“I didn’t want to believe you would do that to Diomedes,” he said, finally.   
“Your friend.” 

And that hit Achilles like a slap in the face - he regretted it instantly. 

But at the same time, he needed to see it. Some proof that the man was still human, that it was simply an action borne out of need, not malicious intent. 

“Do not speak of things you do not know,” Achilles replied, voice low. He had never used that tone with Patroclus before. It spoke volumes of how dangerous he could really be. 

But as afraid as Patroclus was, he could not allow himself to give in.  
“Is Diomedes not allowed to speak, then? Do you measure loyalty by how much fear someone has of disappointing you?” 

“Loyalty?” Achilles looked hard at him, and he knew he was on shaky ground.  
“What is it you’re trying to say, _Paris_?” 

He flinched - Achilles never called him that anymore. 

“Who are you?” Achilles demanded. “I want an answer _now_.” 

“Haven’t I been Paris for you long enough?” Patroclus asked.   
“Now you have Patroclus, someone who loves you. And you do not want to listen.” 

“I have Patroclus,” Achilles voiced, as if trying it out in his head. He frowned. 

“Yes,” Patroclus replied.   
“And do you know - if I had married you, like you wanted - and we had raised a family … our children would be the same age as Adrastus is now. Did you ever think about that?” 

He was struggling, struggling for a glimpse of the man he had fallen in love with. 

“You think I don’t?” Achilles questioned, after a long silence.   
“You think I don’t think about that every day?” 

Patroclus had nothing to say to that. It was a road they had not taken, and there was no use mourning it.

“What now?” he asked, remembering something Achilles had told him. 

_That tells me all I need to know on whether someone is with me or against me._

“Are you going to decide I am your enemy after all?”

“Is that what you want?” Achilles hissed, enraged. 

“Perhaps you could send my head back to Troy. The king would not be able to do anything, as you well know.” 

“Perhaps I should,” Achilles replied.   
“It seems no matter what, you will do as you please.” 

He turned around, so angry he was about to storm out - but paused in his step.   
“Time will show you, Patroclus. If my words do not, then time will show you. It is the greatest teacher, after all.”

And he was gone, nothing but his parting words left behind. 

Patroclus sat back down at the piano, all the joyful memories in this room out of his reach. Were they going to be replaced by unhappy ones?   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He had the blue ribbon in his hand, the one Achilles had brought back for him from Elis. He realized he had never made his yearly wish. It had been forgotten at the back of his drawer, after everything that had happened to distract him. 

Now, he felt there was something far more important than what he usually asked for. It seemed so much to ask - a request too powerful to be infused in the strands of this feeble object. But the ribbon gleamed in his hand, the color of forget-me-nots. 

“If you could grant me one last favor,” he found himself saying, as though there were some deity hearing, not Hestia, but someone else. Then he wouldn’t ask for anything more. 

There was a knock at his door, and it opened. 

“Is she settled?” he asked, without having to look at Glaucus. 

They had arranged for Briseis to have a place to stay, in the same apartment complex Glaucus himself resided at. 

“She wants to talk to you.” 

“I will … just … give me a minute.” 

Glaucus hesitated. “There’s something else.”

Patroclus looked up. 

“You know how I’ve been making associates all over the place?” Glaucus pursed his lips.   
“Well, I managed to get a hold of the courier service that comes from Crisa to, well, all over the place. There was a specific order set up to stop mail from reaching the locations they were sent out to.”

Patroclus frowned.   
“What does this mean?”

“I …” Glaucus weighed his words.   
“I might have found them.” 

“You … you might have found the …?” He was afraid to believe it. 

“Come,” Glaucus said. “I’ll show you. I wasn’t able to take it all with me, but it’s still there.”   
\-------------------

There was a large building on the other side of the city that hosted several different courier services. They went past many rooms, where packages and mail were being transferred from large bags to be sorted by employees. 

“It took some digging,” Glaucus admitted.   
“But the staff were only asked to look out for mail from Crisa, and to stamp them with this -” he picked up an envelope from a large pile, showing a red design.   
“This tells the messengers that they should leave it in the discard pile rather than delivering it.” 

Glaucus took Patroclus’ arm, leading him to an enormous room crowded with bins and bins of unsent mail. 

It must have been as large as a gymnasium.

“This is the so-called discard pile. They remain here for several days, then are shipped off to be burned.” 

“This is …” Patroclus looked around the room, dismayed.   
“It’s going to take forever.” 

“We better start looking,” Glaucus confirmed.   
“I’ve asked my associate to leave the lights on for us when working hours are up.”   
\-------------------------

They searched, and searched. 

They ended up standing inside the various bins, digging through piles of envelopes and keeping an eye out for the courier label from Crisa. 

Patroclus hadn’t even known the prisoners had been allowed to send letters. 

But come morning, he and Glaucus had managed to collect a pile of at least two hundred letters. They gathered them on Patroclus’ desk, exhausted. 

And then they started to read them. 

“I beseech you to hear my plea,” read Glaucus. “I am imprisoned here in -”

“Glaucus,” Patroclus cut in.   
He covered his mouth, one of the letters in his hand.   
“Please.” 

Glaucus quieted down, and they continued going through the letters. Each one was virtually the same. A request for help, for someone to take notice. Many were not any longer than a few sentences. 

Patroclus had a feeling these were from people who had written over and over again, and now could only find the will for a short message, holding out hope that someone would read it. 

He traced his hand over the handwritten script. Some had signed names. Some didn’t. 

Until now, he had only been working with some distant idea. An abstract image, of people and faces he did not know. 

Now, it was real as could be. He knew there must have been hundreds of discarded letters still sitting at the bottom of the bins, which he and Glaucus had not managed to find. Perhaps even thousands. 

He had never wanted to think of the numbers. And he still refused to. 

These were real people, real lives. They deserved to be thought of as individuals. 

“Patroclus,” Glaucus said, uncertainly. “What are we going to do?” 

He wished he knew. 

“Let’s look at the addresses,” he tried. “At least we’ll know which families to look at.” 

It was going to be a never-ending job, but Glaucus only nodded.   
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was late in the evening when he entered the apartment Briseis stayed in. 

She leapt up when she saw him, and rushed over to clasp his arms. 

“You -” and she bit her lip, trying hard to hold back tears.   
“Why did you do it?” 

“I need your help,” he said. 

“After what you just did, anything,” Briseis replied, her wide eyes roaming over the package he had in his hand. 

He opened it and took out the letters. He and Glaucus went every day to search for more. It would take even more time to trace the sender of each letter back to their family. 

“We’re going to find your father, Briseis,” he said.   
“I will make sure of it.”


	26. Chapter 26

Wind blew softly through the window; a gentle breeze, that seemed to wrap around him as surely as the blankets - whispering in his ear - carrying him far away. There were many gateways into the land of dreams, he had learned. Blinking lights, slowly fading away. Descending notes of a song, softer and softer until he heard them no more. 

Or times like this, when smoke from the candles drifted in a whirl around his head, and out the window - and he watched them, eyes following each loop until they closed.

And the heat from the summer was all-encompassing, some deep thirst that could not be quenched. But when it became too uncomfortable, just warm enough to wake him - the breeze was there, soothing him back to sleep. 

Endless, dreamless sleep.   
He couldn’t remember a time when it had been this way. Behind his eyelids it was pitch black, an abyss so deep he could only fall in - only he didn’t fall - but seemed to drift, the darkness gathering at his feet like sand, moving him gently until he was further and further in -

“Psst. Patroclus.”

He grunted and rolled over, the coolness of the sheets feeling good against his cheek. 

“ _Patroclus. Wake up_.” 

Gods, why wouldn’t this voice stop bothering him? 

A hand on his arm, shaking him. Shaking him and calling his name. 

A distance away, Korax gave a short bark. And that was what made his eyes fly open. 

“Hmph?” He lifted his head and rubbed his eyes, just about making out a dark figure next to his bed, the moonlight casting a grey glow over the face.   
“Glaucus? What in Hestia’s _name_ -”

He scrambled up, because he had expressly told Glaucus to come find him during an emergency. And if this was an emergency …

Korax gave another bark. 

“Shh, boy,” he said, reaching out a hand. He was met with a wet snout immediately, the dog shoving his head under his hand to be petted. 

“Patroclus.” Glaucus looked worried.   
“There have been more disappearances.” 

He shot out of bed. 

“Whoa, hold on!” Glaucus exclaimed, pushing him back lightly.  
“There’s no use panicking. It’s already happened.” 

“ _Why_ do they keep taking more people?” Patroclus growled, feeling the heat rising up to his neck. He had to pause to calm himself down. 

“When did this happen?” he asked finally, sighing and putting a hand over his already warm forehead. 

Glaucus reached over and struck a match, lighting an oil lamp beside the bed.   
“Earlier tonight. One of my associates came to the apartment to tell me the news. I have a watch out on these things, you know. Any suspicious activity and I know immediately.” 

Patroclus knew. Over time, Glaucus had gained more experience in the field of surveillance and now had very reliable, accurate sources that he trusted. Patroclus wasn’t even sure what the extent of the other man’s network was. But he knew it wasn’t anything to scoff at. 

“Is there a number?” 

Glaucus winced.   
“It could be five. It could be fifteen.”

“Fuck,” Patroclus breathed out.   
“Whatever we’re doing, it’s not enough.” 

“I don’t know about that, Patroclus,” Glaucus despaired. “I don’t know if there’s much else we can do.”   
He hesitated. “Should I let you go back to sleep?” 

“I won’t be able to sleep now,” Patroclus frowned. “Might as well get up.” 

He slid out of bed and picked up the oil lamp. 

“Want to go for a walk?” Glaucus suggested.   
\---

They ended up pacing alongside the river. The lights over the water were long gone, as it must have been the middle of the night. The magnolia trees waved and dipped in the low wind, and the sight of their dark silhouettes made Patroclus shiver. 

“You can’t keep beating yourself up over this,” Glaucus murmured, after several minutes of quiet agitation.   
“We’re doing the best we can.” 

“It was ridiculous of me to think we could ever keep up,” Patroclus scoffed. 

Over the past month, they had been steadily working to locate family members and friends of the prisoners at Crisa. They already had a list of names - one that kept growing. It was slow, tedious work, but it was not ineffective.

Of course - Patroclus had been too blind to anticipate that the arrests would not stop. He had been so preoccupied with finding out about Crisa, that it hadn’t even occurred to him - the secret police were still very much active, and their efforts to find and punish conspirators were continuous. 

According to Diomedes, hunting down and assassinating Achilles’ political enemies was generally a slow process - it sometimes took months on the trail. But finding people who had collaborated or were suspected of collaborating with the guilty parties was much faster. The secret police had eyes in every region, and quickly took note of unusual activity. It was widely accepted that once an agent gave the order against a suspected person, that person was never seen again. 

And all this time, Glaucus had never been able to get an exact number of them, or identify individual members. All they knew was that these operatives had control over a portion of the army - allowing them to execute orders quickly and efficiently. Patroclus had no idea how Glaucus’ system worked, but he must have had someone keeping an eye on the army for him, tracking their movements. That was the only thing that made sense to Patroclus.

“Look,” Glaucus started. He was quiet for a minute, as though debating if he should say anything.   
“You know how I’ve talked to you about … expanding our network?” 

“It’s too risky,” Patroclus replied, the same answer he always gave. 

Usually, Glaucus agreed with him. This time, the man was not having it. 

“Yes, it’s risky! It was risky to start doing this in the first place! Patroclus, don’t you see? We’ve already sacrificed a _lot_ to find those people. But it’s not just about that anymore! This is bigger than we ever thought. And we have a choice to make now.”

“What choice is that?” Patroclus questioned. He already knew the answer. 

Glaucus turned so they were face to face, and he had never seen the man look so determined before.   
“Do you remember when I asked you, if you ever wondered what life was like as a born Hellene?”

“I remember,” Patroclus exhaled. 

“I know,” Glaucus replied, firmly. “Now I know what it’s like. Because only a true Hellene would give their life to a cause like this. And I’m willing to give mine, Patroclus.” 

“Glaucus…” 

“You only have to say the word. You only have to say that you are in this with me, and I will jump in right after you.” 

Patroclus had fallen silent, contemplating.   
“I cannot ask you to do such a thing. Diomedes warned me -” 

“Never mind Diomedes,” Glaucus interrupted.   
“He’s a grumpy old coot who wouldn’t understand. But you and me, _we_ understand. We know what it’s like to be outsiders, no home, nothing to fall back on. I will always be Trojan, Patroclus. My heart will always belong to the land of my birth. And my father failed his country, he failed his family, he failed _me_. But _I’m_ not a failure. Even if this all goes to shit, I will not have failed, because I fight for what I love. And I love this country. I love these people. I’ll do anything for them. _You taught me that_.” 

Patroclus had to clamp his mouth shut, because gods damn it, Glaucus was making him tear up. 

“What has gotten into you?” he demanded, voice thick.   
But he pulled Glaucus into a hug anyway. 

“I’m not sure. But my stomach really hurts,” Glaucus replied, making a face.

“Did you eat that soup again?” Patroclus guessed. 

“Chryseis says I might be lactose intolerant. Do you know what that means?” 

“What?” 

Glaucus paused.   
“I’m asking _you_ , Patroclus.” 

“Oh. No, I don’t know what it means.”   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Briseis’ apartment was nothing but a mess of scattered mail. Patroclus knew their growing list of names was mostly due to her hard work - and he also knew she scoured the letters nonstop for the slightest mention of her father; to no avail. 

It had to be an emotionally taxing job, reading those hopeful messages again and again. But Briseis showed no sign of resting. 

Over time they had developed a system. Once they had identified the sender’s family, a message was sent to inquire about the missing person. At first, there had been no replies. Patroclus had started to worry that _no one_ was really looking for these people. 

But then, the responses started filtering in. And they grew more by the day. 

Briseis was starting to get a little overwhelmed handling it all by herself. Looking at her now, there were dark circles under her eyes, her skin pale from weeks being cooped up in a small, sunless space. She was a ghost of the woman he had danced with at the ball, but on the inside, the will was still there. 

“A lot of these families are from farming communities,” Briseis observed.   
“We have to keep in mind that this is only a fraction who are able to send a response. The others may not be literate, let alone able to afford messengers to reply in person.”

Patroclus hadn’t even considered that.   
“Then how do we get in contact with them?”

Briseis pursed her lips.   
“It’s tricky. We might have to rely on Glaucus’s acquaintances who are willing to travel out of Olympia - or perhaps Glaucus himself could go.”

He knew Glaucus would be willing to do it. Briseis herself was forced to remain in Olympia due to her ongoing case. 

“Are we able to keep track of the people who were just taken?”

Briseis looked doubtful.   
“Paris. I know there must be people out there just like me, who are desperately searching for their loved ones. But they have nowhere to go, and no one to talk to. And I think they would be willing to help, if we explained to them what we’re trying to do.” 

“I …” This was exactly what Glaucus had been trying to get him on board with. But if they weren’t careful … they could wind up putting a lot of people in danger. 

“I know the risks,” Briseis stated. She looked hard at him.   
“I knew them as soon as I set out, determined to find my father. I could still be in prison. But you have reminded me what it means to be a Hellene. When times are tough, we stick together. And I refuse to believe that sentiment is lost.”

“I know we can’t do this alone,” Patroclus allowed. 

“And we are not alone. There are people out there who only want to be reunited with their families. There are people who see what the army is doing, and want to put a stop to it. We have to find our people, Paris. I promise you, it is _not_ impossible.” 

“I didn’t think it was,” Patroclus sighed.   
“But I suppose - I needed the reminder.” 

Briseis placed a reassuring hand on his arm.   
“Tell me what our next step is.”

He started to object, but she shook her head.   
“You _know_ this - tell me, and we will make a plan.”  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Over the weeks, the call was sent out. If there was anyone who knew about rumors, it was Glaucus. 

“You might not think so, but _gossip_ can be like an art,” Glaucus stated. “With all the right ingredients, it can spread like wildfire. Put too much fuel, and it’ll burn up before it even has a chance to reach the right ears.”

“And that’s what we’re hoping for?” Patroclus questioned, uneasy. “That it’ll reach the right ears?” 

Glaucus pulled him closer so they were eye to eye. 

“Are you all in with me, Patroclus?” 

Patroclus was quiet for a minute. 

“I am,” he said, finally.

“Then let’s get to work!” 

“Glaucus,” he voiced, when the other man turned to go.   
“Be careful.”   
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

While Glaucus was gone, Patroclus and Briseis drafted a plan to track down the route to the camps. 

He had known where they were located in _theory_. But Crisa was a vast region, and there were no definitive coordinates on the mines. There was, however, one way they could know for sure. 

And that was to follow the newly captured prisoners as they were transferred to Crisa. To do that, they needed operatives to keep an eye on the roads at all times. There had to be a method the secret police used to make sure these people disappeared without a trace. And Patroclus was going to uncover it.   
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He had debated on whether to write the letter. His hand paused over the page, the ink dripping in tiny dots, soaking the paper. He had put his pen away several times, only to pick it up again. 

Briseis had said to stick together when times were difficult. But there was the old fear, that he was asking too much. He was already willing to endanger the lives of his friends by recruiting their help. He was already willing to endanger the lives of strangers. 

What if he was wrong? What if Achilles had been right all along, and time would show him that this was set up to fail? 

Achilles had once said that Hellas needed a strong leader, who could keep an eye on the storm before it arrived. And wasn’t Achilles that leader? Hellas needed him - and by doing this, Patroclus would be going against the one person he had promised to stand with, no matter what. 

Suddenly, he wanted nothing more to be underground, in that nondescript shop lot, the temple of Hestia bringing him tranquility. 

He was so _uncertain_. Every time he felt he was on the right track, something further held him back. If there was a higher power that could show him, that could prove to him the path he had set out on was worthy of pursuing …

But then he thought of his list of names. 

He thought of Diomedes’ son. 

And he thought of that room, where a princess he’d met once had brushed her hair and powdered her face before being lost forever. 

And these were the things that _pulled_ at him, a force he did not know had existed. 

He’d left a part of his soul in the room of lost things. And he didn’t think he would ever get it back, not until he learned to walk in the shadows, with these names and faces who faded out of his sight, their voices calling him.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Glaucus had returned. 

They sat in the barbershop, reflecting on all that had happened. 

“This is it,” Glaucus said.   
“Once we start getting responses, everything is going to change. Perhaps we should savor our moment of peace while we have it.” 

Patroclus looked around him at the familiar scene, one old man sweeping the floor, another lying back and waiting for a shave. 

“Do you think we have a chance of succeeding?” 

“I -” Glaucus started to say, then his eyes widened.   
“What on _earth_ -”

The door to the barbershop swung open, and Diomedes swept in like a storm, expression dark and foreboding. 

“You two,” he growled.   
“Come with me.”   
And he reached over and grabbed them both, dragging them out of the shop. 

“Hey!” Glaucus protested, struggling out of Diomedes’ grasp. The man held him fast. 

“What is the meaning of this, Diomedes?” Patroclus demanded, as they walked faster to match Diomedes’ long-legged pace. 

“Just when I thought the two of you couldn’t get any more _stupid_!” Diomedes exclaimed, looking furious. 

“Who are you calling -” 

“ _Quiet_!”   
\---

They had reached Diomedes’ downtown residence, and were shoved up a flight of stairs, grappling around in the dark, dank area. 

Eventually they found a door, which Diomedes flung open, and all three of them tumbled into his cramped flat. 

“This is the home of a kidnapper,” Glaucus gasped, glancing around in awe at the terrible living conditions.   
“You sleep here, Diomedes?”

“Shut up.” 

Diomedes shut the door, turned around and glared at them both.   
“I have waited long enough to say something. And I simply can’t stand by and watch this go on.”

“Oh dear,” Glaucus voiced, while a feeling of dread started to pool in Patroclus’s stomach. 

“Are you going to rat us out to Achilles?!” Glaucus demanded, going slightly pink in the face.   
“Since he’s your _master_ and all? You’re going to, aren’t you? Well, go ahead!”

“I said; _Shut. Up_.”   
Diomedes pinched the bridge of his nose.   
“What the fuck am I supposed to do with you idiots?”   
He sighed, and pointed to a table and some chairs.   
“Sit.” 

“We’re not going to sit!” Glaucus screamed, but Patroclus nudged him over to the chairs. 

“What is it you want to say?” he asked quietly. He had learned some time ago to listen carefully to the other man’s words.

Diomedes looked back and forth at them both. 

“Meddling with the secret police?” 

Glaucus’ pink face turned a full-on red. 

“Cavorting around the countryside, spying on soldiers, with _no one_ to watch your back?”

“I …” 

“Do you have any _idea_ how dangerous this business is?”

“We are completely aware -”

“Let me paint you a picture. You’re walking back to your inn one night, content that you’re on the right trail. The next thing you know, you’re drugged in a room with no window -”

“Oh, you mean like _this_ room?” 

“ - and you wake up, and your kidneys are _gone_. How do you like that picture?!” Diomedes demanded.

Glaucus quieted down. 

“Take it from someone who _knows_ ,” Diomedes insisted.   
“Do you think those people I hunted down were without their defenses? Many of them were _this close_ to getting away -” he pinched his fingers together, leaving a tiny gap.   
“And if I hadn’t been on my guard at all times, I would be buried in a ditch somewhere by now.” 

“Well, what do you expect?” Glaucus asked, after a minute of uncomfortable silence.   
“I’m not a fighter. I … if I’m discovered by the authorities, there’s nothing I can really do to -”

“You’re going to have to,” Diomedes interrupted, firmly.   
He leaned forwards, his gaze level with both of them.   
“If you are going to continue partaking in this treacherous industry, you will have to learn to defend yourselves.” 

“Well ....” Glaucus hesitated, unconvinced.

“Right now, you are nothing but a nosy inconvenience sticking his head where it doesn’t belong. If the secret police’s spies determine you are encroaching on their territory, they will not hesitate to kill you. Now - do you want to learn how to avoid getting killed or not?”   
\---------------------------------------------------------------

Diomedes insisted on meeting up at the very stroke of sundown. 

Patroclus had never been to such a building before. It might have been a school once, or perhaps a row of offices. But there was a large hall, no light save for a few lamps flickering in the crevices.

Soft footsteps let Patroclus know they were not alone. 

Diomedes was so tall that he blended in with the shadows, neither his clothes nor his movement giving his position away unless they looked hard enough. 

“I wonder why I never figured out he was an assassin,” Glaucus whispered in disbelief.   
“How could he _not_ be?” 

As ridiculous as it sounded, Glaucus was right. Patroclus had always thought Diomedes cut an intimidating figure - but just how threatening he could look, he hadn’t realized until now. 

“Are you done running your mouth, Glaucus?” Diomedes asked, sounding like a stern schoolmaster more than anything.   
“Because we don’t have a lot of time, and you are _terribly_ scrawny. The first step is always building strength.” 

“Hey!” Glaucus protested. 

“You might wonder why I brought you here. Well, there are two lovely ladies I’d like you to meet. And they don’t like to be seen out in the open.” 

“What?” Patroclus voiced, confused. 

He flinched when Diomedes pulled out a pair of twin blades, quick as lightning, the sheen of metal caught in the lamplight. 

His neck suddenly throbbed, a distant memory of what it was like to be cut by something so sharp without even realizing it. 

“I call them Helen and Clytemnestra. As deadly as they are beautiful,” Diomedes murmured, handing the blades to each of them. 

“You named your _knives_ after the Atreidae queens?” Patroclus asked, not sure whether to laugh or gape. 

“At least you could say that the people I killed died for the monarchy,” Diomedes shrugged, a glint of humor in his eyes. 

Patroclus was lost for words. 

Years of bowing to Achilles’ every whim must have driven Diomedes somewhat mad.   
Or perhaps it was … just how he was.   
Patroclus nodded to himself.   
Yes, it was definitely just how Diomedes was. 

“Ugh!” Glaucus said, and dropped Helen onto the floor.   
“This feels wrong. I am not a violent person, Diomedes!” 

Diomedes responded by grabbing Clytemnestra and slashing at him, causing Glaucus to yelp and jump back. 

“Are you going to be killed, or are you going to defend yourself?” he demanded, stabbing forcefully, each movement aimed at a vital part of Glaucus’ body. 

“Fuck, fuck,” Glaucus wavered, and he was white as a sheet, struggling to move out of the way. 

He managed to get Helen off the floor, just about parrying the other knife out of his direction. 

“This is not a sword, Glaucus. We do not duel. We fight to injure!” Diomedes called, and continued stalking Glaucus around the room, moving his knife every time he had an opening. 

“I don’t want to do this anymore! I don’t!” Glaucus yelled, but even as he moved backwards in fear, his eyes were tracking Diomedes’ movements, quickly learning which position to hold himself in, which would get him cut, and desperately looking for an opening so he could stab back. 

At long last, they were both breathing hard, having burnt up a lot of energy. 

Patroclus stood staring at the scene. It hadn’t even been more than a few minutes, and they were already exhausted. 

“Now,” Diomedes said, handing Clytemnestra to Patroclus.   
“Your turn.”

Well, this was it, Patroclus thought. 

He had told Glaucus he was all in, and now there was no going back.   
\----------------------------------------------------------

Diomedes was a relentless trainer, but he allowed them room for mistakes. 

“You see what he did there?” he would ask, pointing out a specific movement.   
“He would have cut a major artery, and you would be bleeding out on the ground by now.” 

“Well, thanks for letting me know,” Patroclus would scoff back, but it didn’t change the fact that he was so much more aware of what could happen in an attack. 

It hadn’t even been something he was concerned with, and he felt like an idiot for that. 

“You need to know your body, and how to protect it. It is not about winning the fight - it is about getting out alive.”

He knew it was far more likely that Glaucus would be in this situation, instead of himself. 

Glaucus was the one frequently out in the field. But he had determined that Diomedes was intent on teaching him anyway, because the both of them needed to look out for each other.   
\------------------------------------------------------------

Learning to fight with real weapons did not come without repercussions. 

Diomedes kept a close watch on them, but there were still cuts and scrapes. 

Patroclus would arrive home and come in through the kitchen alleyway. 

When Chryseis saw him, she would shake her head and sigh. She never said anything.

“Is he back?” he would ask, peering down at the tiny nicks, lines of red as thin as hair against his skin; washed away and covered with healing salve. 

“You know he’s not.” 

And he would sigh in relief, and hate himself for it.   
And then there would be this deep yearning, wishing Achilles was back and waiting for him anyway. He would allow himself a short moment to think of it - and when it hurt too much, he blinked it away. 

“You alright, sweetheart?” Chryseis asked that night, her voice both resigned and concerned. 

“Of course.” 

She made an unhappy sound.   
“This one needs a small stitch. I’m going to get my kit. Could you sanitize it for me?” 

“Chryseis -” he called, when her back was turned. 

She looked over her shoulder at him, in that way of hers. 

“Sorry,” he frowned, for his voice had cracked.   
“I’m sorry that … things have to …” 

There was that ache again, making his eyes water, and he blinked it away immediately.   
“That they have to be this way. In the house.” 

She sighed, then placed her hand on his cheek.   
“Whatever you do - please don’t hurt yourself too much.”

He wasn’t sure if she was talking about the cuts.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was midsummer; the humidity spiked the air, heavy on the skin. 

He looked out the window, craning his neck to see the bluejay again. 

It was hard to see without much sunlight. Above them, the lights on the chandelier winked and wavered. 

“Can someone open the window?” he huffed, pulling his collar away from his neck. He got up and did it himself - then sat back down, trying to breathe. 

Next to him, Achilles paid him no mind, preoccupied with his cold soup. The man had returned just the day before. From Elis, from Laconia … Patroclus wasn’t sure. They all blended together, after a while. 

How easy it was to fall back into step, he thought. It seemed as though Achilles had forgotten all about their last argument - but he knew better. 

He knew the man well enough, could read between the lines. Could see the shift in those eyes, the back and forth of thoughts. 

And sense the distance between them, no matter that they were only inches apart. 

There was a knock, and Chryseis slipped in. 

“Paris, dear - the seamstress is back with your new alterations. Should I tell her to leave it upstairs?” 

He perked up.

Every week, he waited for it. He had put in the order for a new coat. But funnily enough, it never quite seemed to fit him. 

“Yes, Chryseis. And do you have a tip …?” 

“I’ve got it right here,” she smiled, and showed him the silver coin in her pocket. 

“Thank you!” 

He went back to his lunch, aware of Achilles’ gaze on him. 

“New clothes?” the other man guessed, not really paying attention. 

Patroclus bit his lip.   
“It’s just a replacement. My old one got torn.” 

Achilles grunted, but didn’t say anything further.   
\---

Patroclus waited until they had finished eating, and Achilles had gone out for the day. 

Then he raced all the way up the stairs. 

Outside their bedroom, there was a long, sleek box left on the end table. He took it into the room and opened it, seeing the velvety material lined with soft silk. 

It was a perfect creation. It would fit him well, he thought. 

And he took out a pocket knife and slashed into the soft inside lining, revealing the layers of fabric beneath. 

He tugged the thinnest layer out, looking around for the black stitch markings. 

Once he found them, he went over to his desk, which housed a complete map of Hellas and all of its roads.   
He laid the fabric over it - a sort of template so he could see where the markings lay. 

And there, right smack over the road to Crisa - was the most recent movement. The newest prisoners being transported, as observed by the operatives who kept a watch on the roads. 

This was the plan he and Briseis had developed together. 

And months later, they were finally seeing it paying off. It was a slow progression - but week after week, the map would be updated. 

And soon enough, they would have their route to the camps.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

All his cuts had healed.   
He admitted that he needed a break from the training sessions with Diomedes. His muscles were sore, and there were bruises in places he hadn’t even thought could have bruises - Glaucus could be a rather energetic opponent when motivated enough. 

The hot water felt good against his aching body; he let it get all the way up to his chin, lapping at his face. 

This was a luxury, he thought. Back in Troy, there had been quick scrubbings, and the water had always been lukewarm. 

He lifted his toes out of the tub, fascinated by how his feet seemed a different size underwater, and a different size out of the water. 

The door outside opened and closed. 

He stiffened, hearing a pair of boots over the polished floor. 

He could hear the sound of a belt buckle being removed, of clothes rustling as they were changed. 

He counted the footsteps. 

And then Achilles was standing in the doorway, looking at him. 

He could hear his own voice saying words he had not thought of. Some memory, of past times in this exact moment - 

“Look at you,” he managed, as the Patroclus then would have said. 

Achilles smiled. He was out of his statesman’s attire, but cut a no less impressive figure. 

That crisp white shirt, that unbuttoned collar. 

Skin, that Patroclus knew the taste of. 

Achilles always looked the same. Achilles always felt the same. 

But what was this? 

Perhaps his eyes were not the same. Someone had cut them out, and replaced them with glass orbs. 

And deep inside, a part of his spirit mourned those eyes from before. A part of his heart ached, with years of learned loving, and the most recent loss he could not name. 

He took a deep breath, and watched Achilles walk towards him, settling down on the floor by the bath. 

Achilles met his eyes, staying there for a moment - and dipped his hand into the water, finding his knee. 

“Alright?” Achilles asked. 

And he could have wept right then. 

He closed his eyes, and took another deep breath. 

His fingers reached up of their own accord, the tips meeting with Achilles’, skimming across the surface of the water. 

They had never touched each other like this, he thought. 

Both with their heads in different worlds, a million thoughts keeping them apart. 

“How was your trip?” he asked, because he did not know what to say. 

There was a tightness in his ribcage, like a metal hook had caught there.

“Well enough,” Achilles replied, smooth and polite.   
He tilted his head to one side.   
“I was just thinking, of how you had wanted to see Elis again. Isn’t it a shame, that you missed the festival this year?” 

“Next year,” Patroclus said, and wished he hadn’t.   
“There’s always next year.”

“True enough.” 

Achilles’ hand stroked over his knee, inspecting the skin like it was the most interesting thing he’d seen. 

Why didn’t he know how to talk to him anymore? 

He opened his mouth, and closed it again. 

“Achilles.” 

And the man looked up.

“Yes, darling?”

He fumbled around, his mouth dry as the dessert. 

Achilles waited a second or two, then shook it off when he had no words. 

“They ask for you. Agapenor. The girls. They picked out your ribbon, the one I brought back.” 

“I would like to hear more about them,” Patroclus replied, relaxing a little. 

It was almost like old times, him and Achilles. When they could find a moment of connection. 

“You never talk about them. I would like to hear more.” 

“I don’t, do I?” Achilles said. There was a strange cadence to his voice - light and breezy, like he was not quite there. 

“No.” Patroclus sat up straighter, and leaned over the tub. 

Gods, he could not help himself. One small reminder of the other’s love, and he was back - reaching out with his hands, grabbing at whatever was left to him. 

There was that urge again, to see Achilles’ mouth curl up in a smile. To see him looking at him, that knowing glint in his eyes. 

He had missed him so much, he realized. All that time he was gone. 

But he had taken that feeling, and locked it away. And what was left was a hollow groove where his heart was supposed to be. 

He took Achilles’ hand and placed it over his chest, as though that simple touch could restore it. 

It almost worked, he thought. It almost worked. 

“Was it very tiring?” he asked. “The conference today.” 

“Hmm.” 

It was just empty conversation. Sounds to fill the silence, while they struggled to brave their time alone together.

And there was the illusion of familiarity - he could not deny it brought him comfort, having Achilles this close, talking to him so normally. 

When in reality, his heart was so broken he did not know if the pieces could even be held together.

“I imagined it was so.”   
A tear slid down his face, and he didn’t know where it came from. He quickly turned away, pouring water over his head to conceal it.   
“Too long, those meetings. Perhaps you should get some rest.” 

Achilles nodded. 

He didn’t want him to go away. He wanted him to stay here, next to the bath - to pretend that they were living in a memory, and hope he would wake up and it would be real. 

Some part of him was screaming to be heard. The other part - lost, in this dreamworld they had constructed for themselves. 

“Go on. I’ll be out soon,” he said, and touched Achilles’ chin. 

The man lowered his face and pressed a kiss to the palm. 

Then he took Patroclus’ hand, holding it tight. 

And when he looked at him now -

“Some news,” Achilles said, nonchalantly.   
“That I thought you might want to hear.” 

Patroclus had fallen silent.

“There is an organization, intent on keeping watch of the prisoners transported to Crisa. Their motives remain to be seen. But don’t you think it’s interesting, the lengths people will go to for misguided beliefs? I find it interesting.” 

Patroclus pressed his lips together. 

“You would,” he replied.   
“When you don’t understand how people feel when the ones they love are gone - disappeared into thin air.”

“Perhaps it is so. It is really a pity, that those people would sacrifice their lives - when the ones they love have already given the same, in penance for wrongdoing.”

“That’s what you believe,” Patroclus said, after a moment. 

He shrank further down into the tub - Achilles’ sharp stare on him burning. 

“But that’s only one side to the story. Perhaps you should learn theirs.” 

“Not a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all.” Achilles seemed to contemplate it.   
Then he let out a breath, as though shaking himself out of his own mind. 

He gave Patroclus a smile, perfectly genial - and leaned over for a kiss.   
“Don’t take too long.”

“I won’t,” Patroclus answered. 

Achilles nodded, reaching over to touch his cheek. 

They were so close, noses nearly touching. He could see how dark Achilles’ eyes could get under the right lighting. 

“Patroclus.”

“What is it?” 

Silence, while Achilles looked him over for a very long time. 

“If this is how you want to play it,” Achilles started, voice very low in his ear.   
“Then so be it.” 

The smoothing of a thumb over his chin, gentle and affectionate.

“So be it.” 

And Achilles gave him another kiss, on the forehead this time. 

He got up, and walked out of the bathroom.

The water had gone cold around him.


	27. Chapter 27

Little black dots, marking the hidden road. 

Patroclus smiled down at the fabric template, a surge of satisfaction warming his chest. The map was almost complete. He could see it now. He could practically feel the dirt road beneath his feet. Hear the screech of crows, flying overhead. Those clever birds. 

He committed the sight to memory. It was all he knew to do. 

He slashed the fabric to ribbons, taking care to remove the black markings. 

Then he rolled up his map of Hellas, and placed it in his desk drawer where it would stay until the next delivery. He left the torn coat in its box, to be sent to the seamstress again.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Fall was not too far away; how the leaves shifted colors, shriveling into brown crisps - he thought that was how it felt, the way their operation had gradually transformed itself. 

It had started out bright, bursting with hope - and he thought it was still this way. But they treaded carefully. Glaucus’s recent reports stated that the secret police was now active in Olympia itself. So far, they had located three main points in the city where agents were likely to be keeping surveillance. 

Their advantage, of course, was that the army could not be involved. Olympia was too populous a city, too frenetic, for it not to become public knowledge if the army intervened. The secret police had to rely on themselves - and according to Diomedes, they were just men and women. Hiding in the shadows, perhaps, but darkness only lent so much of its power. 

To decrease the risk of suspicion, Patroclus did not have any contact with the others who worked with them in recovering the prisoners. He had not even been to one of the clandestine meeting spots Glaucus selected and changed every week. But this was a special night; this was a night where they would launch their latest plan.   
\---

“Don’t panic, but we are in fact merely a block away from a known secret police watchspot,” Glaucus stated, peering around them. 

Patroclus did not know what Glaucus was looking at - they were one floor below ground, in an old pub - and there were no windows. 

“It’s not that I’m panicking -”

“If those fuckers want to play cat and mouse with us, then we’ll _play_ cat and mouse!” Glaucus interrupted. 

Patroclus sighed, but did not take offense - Glaucus got like this when he was overexcited. He tended to run his mouth and talk over everyone. 

This was the first time Glaucus had had a chance to show Patroclus his finely-tuned system, and he was eager. He had worked so hard on it, and really found something he was good at. 

“Tell him, Briseis!” 

Patroclus snuck a glance at her - she rolled her eyes at him. Briseis now served as head of Glaucus’s counterintelligence team, preventing the secret police from catching hold of them. 

They kept an eye on the door. Patroclus felt his hands start to go a little clammy. He knew Glaucus and Briseis had all their bases covered, but _still_ \- nowadays, it was all too easy to make an error. They kept group gatherings to a minimum because of this. 

There was a knock on the door, and Glaucus leapt up. He slid open the peephole.   
“What is the password?” 

“Go fuck yourself,” came a gruff voice. 

Glaucus moved to ask again, but the person reached a finger in and poked him in the nose. 

The door opened and in trudged Diomedes, having to duck to get through the doorway. He nodded at Patroclus. 

Patroclus nodded back. He hadn’t been sure if Diomedes would come, but now, something settled in him, having the man here. 

“Anyone fancy some crackers?” Glaucus asked, but everyone ignored him. 

It had grown rather tense in the room. 

Diomedes stood against the wall, and Briseis was right opposite him. Neither seemed to want to look at each other, but once they started, it seemed they were determined to outstare one another. 

“Um …” Patroclus cleared his throat.   
“Briseis. This is -”

“I know who he is,” Briseis cut in, and gave a wan smile.   
“Isn’t it nice to take the day off from butchering the masses.”   
She had her hands on her hips, her chin raised slightly, daring Diomedes to respond. 

“It _is_ nice,” he shrugged.   
“Almost as nice as a day off from playing noblewoman.” His voice was level, but his eyes had an equally proud glint in them. 

Patroclus coughed. “Alright, let’s not -”

“I suppose it’s only fair of you to make assumptions. How rude of me not to introduce myself properly.”   
Briseis held out her hand.   
“Briseis of Pedasus. I’m afraid I have a strong aversion to murderers, but thankfully our time here will be brief.”

Diomedes took her hand.   
“Diomedes son of Tydeus. I’m afraid I must have the same aversion, but what is life without a little self-loathing?”

Briseis raised her eyebrows a little, surprised. 

“Gods, there he goes again!” Glaucus groaned, nudging Patroclus.   
“He’ll have her in bed with him in no time. I give it a week at most.”

“Glaucus, I do not want to know that, thank you,” Patroclus replied. 

“Perhaps two weeks. She seems really angry.”

“Glaucus, please stop.”

“But the angry ones want him the most.”

“Glaucus.”

“I feel so alone,” Glaucus sighed. 

“Shh,” Patroclus said, because he didn’t know what else to do. 

They were waiting on one more person. 

He had mustered up the courage to send the letter, finally. But he hadn’t been sure if she would arrive on time. 

It was nearly an hour later when the knock finally came. Diomedes went to open the door. 

“Not so fast!” Glaucus exclaimed, hurrying to intercept him.   
“You need to ask the secret password question!” 

Diomedes merely stared down at him, an eyebrow raised. 

Glaucus leaned up and whispered in his ear. 

“You have _got_ to be kidding me,” Diomedes grumbled. 

“Ask it!” Glaucus insisted. “This is standard procedure!” 

Diomedes rolled his eyes and opened the peephole. He sighed, looking like it absolutely pained him to ask. 

“... Who captures the cinnamon?”

“The dill and the nutmeg!” came a cheerful voice, and Patroclus’s heart lifted to hear it. He jumped off his seat immediately. 

Diomedes shoved Glaucus out of his way so he could hold the door open for their latest visitor. 

Her skirts swished over the floor, and she removed her hat to come indoors. A complete foreigner, she looked like. Neither Hellene nor Trojan women wore hats. 

Her eyes met his, and before he knew it, he had crossed the room, and their arms were wound tight around each other. 

“Oh!” Polyxena exclaimed, and laughed. “Look at how strong you’ve gotten!” 

He was nearly lifting her off her feet. He stepped back, sheepish, aware of the other eyes on him. 

She clasped his arms and leaned forward. “Let me have a look at you.” 

He had always known they would meet again. But how long it had been since he’d last seen her. Was this always how it would be?   
One meeting, in every few years? Perhaps it didn’t matter. It was better than nothing at all. 

Polyxena gave Glaucus a hug, then looked up and down at the new faces she didn’t recognize.   
“And who are you?” 

“Briseis,” Briseis offered, looking slightly stunned at seeing someone her own age, dressed so differently. 

“Diomedes,” Diomedes added, far more composed. 

Polyxena beamed and inclined her head slightly.   
“Dr. Polyxena, at your service.” 

Patroclus shook his head, hiding his smile. Of _course_ she was going to show off about it. Her crowning achievement, after all. 

“Let’s get to work,” he said, now that they were all here.  
\------------------------------------------------

Over time, their contacts had become strong enough that they had started building patterns in the movements of the secret police and the army throughout Hellas. They were now able to anticipate when the secret police would strike next - this meant that they had a good idea on which people would be targeted and taken in for interrogation. Their estimates were not always correct - but it had a high enough success rate that it was time to develop an action plan. 

“Once we put the alert out that these people will have soldiers knocking on their doors, they will be fugitives,” Patroclus started.   
“Glaucus here has put together a team to retrieve the targeted individuals. And Polyxena -” he beckoned at her to explain her part.

“We will monitor the roads to Phrygia to ensure we are not followed. The roads have been free for years; they know there are shipments being sent out to the Trojan war relief. Our biggest problem is numbers. Our best bet is to smuggle no more than two at a time. The risk of discovery grows too high after that.” 

Diomedes frowned.   
“What do you mean smuggle? What would Hellene fugitives do in Phrygia?” 

“Phrygia, as you know, is a free country and welcoming of refugees. It’s an ideal place to organize safehouses. Now - realistically, we are not going to get everyone. This is going to be something we have to accept, yes?”   
Polyxena looked around for disagreement.   
“I will do my best to arrange safehouses along the roads, so if something comes up and we have to leave people behind before they get into Phrygia, they’ll still have somewhere to hide.”

“It’s a long way,” Diomedes grunted.   
“You think these people would agree to leave Hellas because they’ve been targeted?” 

“The interrogations have become more widespread,” Patroclus pointed out.   
“I think there is more awareness on what has been going on, especially in the outer regions.”

“There will be some who won’t believe us,” Glaucus added.   
“But like we said - we are not going to save everyone. That is not the goal. The goal is to facilitate safe passage for people willing to get out.” 

“Everyone is in agreement with this?” Polyxena questioned.   
“We need to be on the same page if this is going to work. No last minute sacrifices, no attempts to intervene when a family does not want to be helped. This is a small scale effort and if we are discovered, it’s all over.” 

For some reason, Diomedes and Briseis looked at each other. 

“It’s … not easy to up and leave home like that,” Briseis hesitated. 

“They are Hellenes. Who knows when they’ll be able to come back,” Diomedes added.

“But … if I’d had a chance to do it - if I’d had some warning of what would happen to my father … I think I would have taken the chance,” Briseis decided. 

“Is everyone in agreement?” Glaucus asked, for final confirmation. 

Briseis nodded, and Diomedes stayed silent, but didn’t dissent. 

“Alright, Briseis, you’re with me. Polyxena will go back to Phrygia and keep steady contact with Paris. We must prepare to have a safehouse ready by the end of the month.”   
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

“I wish you didn’t have to go so fast,” Patroclus said, his arm linked with Polyxena’s.   
“What was that, barely a day? The last time, we had a few, at least.” 

She stopped in her tracks and looked at him. He knew that look. 

Then she took off her hat, rolled it up, and smacked him on the arm with it. 

“Ow!” 

“You waited until _now_ to tell me about all this?”

He should have seen it coming.   
“Well … I was going to tell you much earlier. But the war relief has been so demanding and -”

“The war relief is going swimmingly, as you well know. I can’t believe this.” 

She sighed, then took his arm again, pulling him so they were face to face. Her expression wavered, and he knew this was one of the few times she was struggling for a way to reach him.

“It’s alright,” he said. 

Her expression grew solemn.   
“What can I say? What can I say to make you feel better, to take it all away?” 

He lowered his head. There was a reason he didn’t talk about this. But it was Polyxena. He managed a small smile at her. 

She tilted her head to one side, and her answering smile was just as small, just as sad.   
“Perhaps I could do a silly dance. I could ask Glaucus to teach me.” 

He snorted. Glaucus probably knew a lot of silly dances. 

“Stay here forever.” 

She had to go. He knew she had to go. 

She reached up and touched his cheek. 

“Patroclus?” 

“Yes?” 

“I am _so_ proud of you. I can hardly recognize you sometimes, you know. But I am so proud.” 

Something had caught in his throat, and he cleared it away. 

“You once told me how hard it was, to capture a moment. But I’m trying to do it now. Then when I think of you I’ll think of this moment.” 

Her smile was different this time, gentle, yet brilliant.   
“And you’re the hardest one of them all to capture.”   
\---

Another _till we meet again_ , he thought, when she was gone. For that was what their friendship was.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A knock at the door. 

He jumped; he had almost fallen asleep at his desk, picturing the map to Crisa over and over again in his head. 

“Paris?” Chryseis voiced, looking concerned. 

He took a look at the window, seeing how dark it had gotten outside. 

“Are you coming down for dinner?”

“Yes,” he replied, feeling his stomach twisting a little.   
“Yes, of course.”

Chryseis gave a little smile and left him. 

He had to pause for a moment, leaning against the wall. 

His heart was beating like a rabbit’s. 

He squeezed his eyes shut and took a few deep breaths, quelling the erratic movement. 

This was the only time they ever saw each other, lately.   
Achilles was in Elis so often Patroclus was sure it had become the man’s new home base. He felt strangely guilty about it - like he had driven Achilles out of his own house. But every few weeks, there would be an official get-together of some sort at the conference hall in Olympia - and Achilles would need to make it back. 

And when he was home, his presence in the house was like a thought that lingered at the very back of the mind - a sort of haunting thought. 

Patroclus could always sense him, even when they weren’t in the same rooms. It stirred an unrest in him that he could not escape from.   
\---

The dining room was warmly-lit and cozy, plates being moved around the table, steam rising as dishes were uncovered. He tried to breathe in the welcome aroma of hot foods, thinking they would relax him. 

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, chancing a glance at Achilles - who sat in his usual spot, a commanding figure at the head of the table. He had never really thought about it that way before - but he slid into the chair adjacent to him. 

Achilles shot him a small smile - one that he had to look away from, because it was the kind of smile he had hoped never to get from the man. 

Perhaps Achilles hated him. 

And he would deserve it, he thought, taking his spoon and dragging it through the first course. He deserved it. 

It was a five course meal, as was expected when Achilles was home. And during each course, they would start and restart conversations, and it felt like sitting on either end of a playing board. 

Both moved their pieces, seeing what the other would do. He could keep himself together just for that. Because it was the only way they knew to talk to each other, now. All the parts of the man he loved, shut away from him, in the body of this stranger. 

In his mind his hand reached out desperately, but the moment he started to make contact, it was as though the skin blurred until his hand went right through it. And he had to be careful, or he would fall right over the edge into the abyss below. 

“I’ll be gone again for two weeks.” Achilles looked up at him. 

He always gave an exact time now - it was like a deadline. 

_Two weeks. You have two weeks to do your damage, and then you will see what I will do_. 

“I trust you’ll be able to amuse yourself in the meantime?” 

He grimaced. Amuse himself. 

It was a taunt, that what he did was not really a threat. But Glaucus had said to him over and over again - lesson one; always let them believe they had the upper hand. 

“It should not be a problem,” he replied, and looked Achilles in the eye.   
“Perhaps when you return you’ll find that it was as though no time had passed.”

Achilles grunted, and went back to his meal. The sound of his knife cutting through the meat kept Patroclus on edge. 

He watched Achilles out of the corner of his eye - because after all this time, he still needed to look. It was like watching something from far away - something he had no chance of obtaining any longer, yet he still tortured himself with its image. 

“That is true … Olympia and all its charms. But when good things come, the bad follows. We could once walk through the streets at night with no fear - and that is not the case anymore.”

“You needn’t beat yourself up about a rising crime rate - that is what happens when a city expands.” 

“I only hope you don’t go walking alone when it’s dark.” 

Patroclus scoffed. “I have no reason to.” 

Achilles did smile then, a wider one. 

And he was sure of it now. He had suspected, but it was Achilles’s way of letting him know he was being watched. Some silent observer, sent to track him wherever he went. 

He was suddenly thankful he worked with a team of paranoid people. Always looking over their shoulders. Always changing their locations. And never, for a moment, taking their eyes off the secret police who were their opponents.   
\---

When dinner was done he went into a side room and shut the door. 

He sat on the floor and breathed hard. 

Weeks, turning it months. He and the others never stopped working.

But Achilles was a patient man. 

He was the kind of man who could send out a death sentence and wait as long as it took for it to be completed. He was the kind of man who had destroyed a monarchy by observing his enemies. And he was watching, Patroclus knew. He had not made his strike yet - but that didn’t mean his bow wasn’t at the ready. 

Time would show him, Achilles had said. And time was on Achilles’s side.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You’re getting a little green,” Glaucus pointed out, one day. 

“I …”

“We’ve got this. Haven’t we checked everything? We’re prepared, aren’t we? If something goes wrong, we’re prepared.”

“Yes, we’re prepared.” Patroclus sighed. 

“Good.” Glaucus beamed.   
“Because they’re wanting to meet you.” 

Patroclus had been getting ready for this. When the idea had been posed, he had thought it was too much - that it would surely get out of hand. 

But as the ground grew more treacherous, he realized they needed the support. Most of their spies who worked under Glaucus were civilians - nondescript people, whose only job was to gather and move information quickly and discreetly. They were not fighters. They could never act directly against the secret police and their soldiers. 

But as the alert was spread on the missing persons and targeted individuals, more and more of their families started to come forward. And with them came friends, and acquaintances. People who were willing to risk their lives to see this through.   
\---

It was quiet in the temple of Hestia. 

The candles burned lower, melting into stumps against the bare floor. He wondered who came and kept them lit. He rarely saw anyone else here. 

There were several people kneeling by the altar, heads bowed in deference to the statue. 

A group of men and women, some older, some younger. 

Patroclus went up to the statue himself and took his place among them. It reminded him of the times he and Glaucus had held vigil, for the dead at Troy.

The man next to him was older, with a scarred face and part of his arm missing. An ex-soldier. These were all veterans. 

“They say Hestia’s hearth burns in anticipation for soldiers returning home,” the man remarked. 

“Did you find it to be true?” Patroclus asked. 

“Regardless - it was an image worth preserving, in times of ugliness.” 

He eyed the man. There were so few of them, but they were what was needed to counteract the army under the secret police’s control. If they planned it well, they would make a sufficient guerrilla force to launch attacks on the interrogators, and rescue the people who were being captured. 

And Patroclus was sure - once the fighting went out into the open, Achilles would be forced to make his move. 

People would die. Others would be arrested and tortured for information. And he knew there was no turning back. They were in as deep as they could get. 

It was why it was a constant struggle to get up everyday, knowing what he knew. Because he had started this. And sometimes - there was no way of knowing if it was the right thing to do.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Why did you want me there?” Diomedes asked, as they were walking together in the garden, Diomedes’s food package held safely against his chest. 

Patroclus looked at him - it was a full moon tonight, and he couldn’t help thinking of that story again. Flying up to the moon, to retrieve a magic spell. Perhaps it was him who needed that spell now. Something to cure him from whatever had taken hold of him, a disease consuming part of his mind and spirit, bit by bit. 

Achilles had asked him who he was. Now he knew. And he wasn’t sure if he liked what he saw. 

“You know why,” he replied. 

Diomedes paused in his step - and looked down at the ground.   
“You know it’s not feasible.”

“It’s an option. A way out of here.”   
He had only wanted Diomedes to attend the meeting, to meet Polyxena and the others, and see how devoted they were about organizing the safehouses. He had wanted Diomedes to see how seriously they would take the safety of the fugitives.   
“For Adrastus.” 

“Away from his home. Away from everything he’s ever known.”

“A new start,” Patroclus said. He kept his voice gentle - it was no use pushing Diomedes. The man would make his own decisions. But like Patroclus himself had found - sometimes people needed reminding that they weren’t alone. 

“Why did you help us?” he added, thinking of all the times Diomedes had warned them, pointed out the faults in their plans. The man was reluctant to get involved, fearing his son would bear the consequences … but he still did. 

“Because I was once like you. I once had hope.” 

“You have your son.”

“A boy born with a hammer over his head.”   
Diomedes sighed.   
“Sometimes I wonder what his mother would say about all of this.” 

Patroclus had never asked about Iphigenia before - worrying it was a sore spot. 

“What - what was she like?” he got out, tentatively. 

Diomedes turned towards him.   
“Not anything like I expected. She and Achilles were on good terms, you know. In another world, perhaps they could have been friends. But he hated everything her family represented, and she knew it.”

Patroclus was silent.   
“And you?” he asked. “You cared for her?”

“It was not like that,” Diomedes shook his head.   
“It was not some love affair, something to be mourned. She knew what I was. And I don’t think I had ever met anyone who understood me that way. We were good to each other - but we both knew her days were numbered.”

Diomedes stopped, his face blending in with the shadows, half dark and half light.   
“She was the first to die.”

Patroclus swallowed. He was getting used to the emptiness within him. He couldn’t recognize himself anymore. 

“Why does he do this?” he asked, softly. 

He had heard all the answers. He had thought of all the answers. 

But he wanted to hear Diomedes’s take. Perhaps a man who had a foot in both worlds, who was Achilles’s own shadow - could tell him what he needed to know. 

Diomedes made a sound, almost a laugh, but not quite. He stood until they were face to face. 

“Here is something I have learned, Patroclus. It does not matter if men are good. It does not matter if they are wicked. For all the differences, they each have one thing in common; they each believe themselves the hero of their own story.” 

The silence stretched out between them. 

How would it be possible to fight such a thing? Patroclus wondered. 

How could one fight pure belief? And what would become of him, if he tried?  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That bluejay was flitting about outside again. 

It was a warm day, with the sun just low enough that it would dip below the horizon in no time at all. 

He clutched the fabric in his hands, feeling a tremor within him.

It was both freeing and confining, a stark energy with its highs and lows. 

Underneath his fingertips, was a single black stitch. 

The final route marker, the end of the road. 

He had it. He had a completed map. 

“Well?” Glaucus asked, looking at him nervously.   
“What now?”

Patroclus closed his eyes, and opened them again.   
“I will go to the camps.”


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Violence

The cart jolted over the bumpy road, throwing him against the side. Several sacks of potatoes rolled over, landing with a thump against the floor. He wrapped his coat further around himself, the wind howling, harsh and cutting and making the cart swerve to one direction. 

“Alright over there?!” yelled his guide, who could barely be heard over the wind. The strangest part about it was that it came and went. One minute of sunshine, where the snow around them shone like the surface of a glacier. And then the sky would darken, as though someone had abruptly angered a storm god somewhere. 

Back in Olympia, they were barely past autumn. Yet it was already a full-blown winter here in Crisa, where the snow fell the longest in the entire country. Patroclus hadn’t been up to see the villages where the ice festivals were held. The trip had been so long and tiring, he’d spent half his time on the lookout for someone following him, and the other half asleep. 

As soon as he’d reached Crisa, he’d found Glaucus’s contact and was quickly handed over to a guide. The man made supply deliveries to the military stations along the route, and would be one of the only people traveling on the road at that time. Once they set out on the route, Patroclus could see why the prisoners had been able to be transported with relative secrecy. 

It was too far from the villages for anyone to notice, and the roads were both treacherous and confusing. They had to stop a few times to look at the map and make sure they were going the right way. A couple of times, they had to circle back after getting lost. 

It was a good thing there were so many potatoes, Patroclus thought. If they got lost again they would surely starve. When the wind died down, they sped up again, and he stuck his head further out of the cart to see the side of the mountain range. 

There was an enormous lake that had frozen over on the other side. It had a ghostly beauty to it - like a trap, laid there to lure visitors, unknowing of the chill depths that lay beneath the ice. He shuddered, thinking of it, and returned his attention to the road.

The sun set, and rose again, and he had no idea how much time had passed. Days were so short here. 

“We should reach the station in a few,” the guide announced. “And then you’ll be in the hands of the soldiers.” 

Patroclus nodded in affirmation. He had been readying himself for this. 

While there was no real reason the army so far out here would deny him passage into the camps, he didn’t know what orders had been given. He’d done his best to conceal his movement out of the city, but it had been days since then. Which meant the secret police had days to track him down. 

It could take forever to make contact with the military stations out here. He had been largely dependent on Glaucus’s contacts, those in secretarial positions for the army, to send a message announcing his plans on visiting the camp. There was no way to tell if that message had been intercepted by the secret police. He was operating on high risk here. But he’d had to try. 

Minute by minute, he could feel that they were going on a downhill slope. It was the middle of the day, yet his guide had lit a torch, the signal for an arrival. 

He kept his eyes glued on the road. 

Slowly, in the distance, he could make out the station. 

It looked awfully small and isolated, right smack in the middle of miles and miles of snow. He didn’t know how anyone could survive out here. The weather was slightly milder than how it had been on the eastern side of the mountain range, but it was still freezing. 

His guide started to wave, and eventually, one soldier bundled in furs emerged from the station. 

The cart drew up outside the entrance, and the guide dismounted to help Patroclus out. 

His legs were wobbly from sitting in the carts for so long. He stumbled out, keeping one hand on the edge. 

“You have a visitor,” the guide announced, and beckoned at the sacks of potatoes just in case the soldier wanted to buy some. 

The soldier stared in confusion at Patroclus. 

“A civilian?”

“I come from Olympia,” Patroclus replied, and took out the travel papers he’d prepared in advance. They would match everything, _if_ the message had gone through to the camps and the army was expecting him. 

The soldier squinted at his papers, then looked up at him in astonishment.  
“The prince of Troy?” He had a thick country accent, from one of the other northern regions, perhaps. 

What a job it must be, Patroclus thought. Joining the army only to be sent out here in the middle of nowhere.

The guide was ready to drive his cart away.  
“I wish you luck, prince! Perhaps I will see you when you get back!” 

Patroclus thanked him, then waited nervously as the soldier seemed to decide what to do with him.

“I will inquire about your visit to the main faction in the morning. I should get a reply immediately.” 

“I would appreciate it, officer.” 

The soldier nodded uncertainly, like he couldn’t quite believe Patroclus was standing right there.  
“… Inside?”

“Please.” 

It was getting dark, and while the air was clear, the cold was _biting_. 

The soldier led Patroclus inside, where a fireplace was warmly lit. 

The station only had one other soldier, sitting in the corner, fast asleep. The first soldier looked embarrassed on his comrade’s behalf. 

It was quite peaceful in the station, if not lonely. 

The first soldier offered Patroclus a modest meal of boiled potatoes, and they ate in front of the fire. Then he was shown to a separate bunk area where he could spend the night. 

“I apologize for the sleeping arrangements, sir. We did not know you were coming.” 

“It’s no matter. I thank you for helping me.” 

In his bed, Patroclus huddled under the covers and squeezed his eyes shut. 

He could hear the first soldier waking his comrade up and whispering excitedly about their sudden visitor. 

All at once, he felt very, very alone. 

Every part of him wished he hadn’t come, every part of him wished he was back in Olympia. He thought of each of his friends, who continued to work tirelessly while he was away. And he tried not to think of Achilles, but the image of home was fresh in his mind. 

Perhaps there was some alternate reality where he had never done this.  
Perhaps in another world, he had stopped himself before leaving for Crisa.  
Perhaps he had waited for Achilles to return, and immediately made amends. 

And they would forget all about it. 

They would forget all about it, he thought, sadly, as he drifted to sleep.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was a knock on the door, the voice of the soldier calling him.

“Sir, I have returned! Sir, they are ready to receive you at Camp Crisa!” 

He sprang up instantly. The message had gone through. 

Outside, there was an escort comprising four soldiers from the main faction, waiting for him. There was an additional horse with an empty saddle. Patroclus was thankful he knew how to ride. 

“Prince.” 

The four soldiers of the escort saluted him, and one of them stepped forward. Along with his red insignia, he had several badges, speaking to his higher rank.  
“I am Second Lieutenant Stratichus of the Crisa faction. It is an honor to serve as your escort. Captain Euphorbos awaits your arrival.” 

Patroclus nodded at the Second Lieutenant, then turned to thank the two soldiers from the station before mounting his horse. He didn’t know what had gotten into him, but he was not as nervous as he had expected. It was strange, riding in the middle of soldiers who had been considered his opponents these past months. 

They did not doubt who he was, and they treated him with respect. He tried to picture in his mind the soldiers controlled by the secret police, who patrolled other regions and took part in the disappearances. Faceless villains, dangerous for obeying orders. If they only knew what he had been doing. 

It was a good two hours’ ride. There was no wind that day, and the escort was quiet around him. As calm as he felt, it was as though his eyes were not ready. He scoured the road before them. He had wondered again and again what the camps would be like.

Would it be the same sort of feeling he’d had, riding past the palace of the Atreidae? Would he be able to feel the sorrow, the sense of wrongness that came with such a place? 

His answer came the minute they caught sight of the gates. 

He saw the watchtowers first - two dark buildings far out in the distance. As they got closer and closer, the calm ebbed, and what followed was a cold dread slowly making its way into his stomach. 

On either side of the horse, his knees were numb. He wondered if he would be frozen in place, the large gates looming higher above them. 

The entire site was surrounded with a high fence. It seemed nondescript at first, not too different from the Olympia State Prison. But there was something about it, located in the center of Crisa’s harsh beauty - so out of place. 

He didn’t know how he did it. How he kept his composure, as the Second Lieutenant yelled out the order for the gates to open. He tried not to look up at the sentries situated in the watchtowers. They had projectile weapons, able to shoot down if something happened. 

As soon as they entered the gates, there was a long building that looked like a group of offices. Patroclus had been holding his breath - mustering up the guts to take in the sight of the prisoners, imagining cells packed with people, like cages along the pathway. 

It seemed such an ordinary place. A dull, grey building, with the red and gold flag of Hellas waving. He was taken inside, and led past the offices until they reached the largest one at the end.  
\---

Captain Euphorbos was a middle-aged man with a stony glare and the straightest posture Patroclus had ever seen. He would have been terrifying if he wasn’t nearly a head shorter than Patroclus himself. 

“I was most … pleased, to receive notice that you were coming here to inspect the camps, prince.” The captain looked far from pleased.  
“We have been awaiting word from Pelides. It would certainly have been a morale booster if he arrived to see the product of our hard work. Of course, I am not complaining.”  
The captain gave a little smile, nearly sheepish, but it was hard to pull off with eyes like his.  
“The fact that he has sent his most trusted is an honor in itself.” 

Patroclus leaned forwards, intrigued. He hadn’t known Achilles had not been to the camps himself.  
He licked his lips, thinking of what to say.  
“It must be a difficult task running the camps in this wilderness, Captain. I must commend you for your service.” 

Captain Euphorbos perked up, a hint of self-satisfaction appearing on his otherwise blank face. There was something Glaucus had said to Patroclus once, that had stuck with him since. One could tell a lot about a man by how he received praise. 

“Second Lieutenant Stratichus will show you around the compound. And if there is anything with your accommodations - you only have to ask.” 

“I thank you for your hospitality, Captain. I assure you, this will not go unnoticed by Achilles himself.” 

The captain managed to mask his contentment this time, but at least they were on good terms now. 

Patroclus knew where he stood. The army might believe that he had been sent here by Achilles, but he was still an outsider. Not Hellene, and not a military man. They would not show him everything he needed to see, not unless he established a good relationship with their leader.  
\---

“This is your room. If you look outside the window, you can see the first camp unit,” Second Lieutenant Stratichus offered. 

Patroclus glanced out the window at once, seeing a white building opposite. It had started to snow lightly. 

He felt his fist curl, imagining the people kept inside. He was _so close_. 

_Patience_ , he told himself. _You will see them sooner or later_. 

He turned to look at Second Lieutenant Stratichus. He hadn’t noticed before on their ride from the station, but now, standing so close to the man, there was something familiar about him. 

They had never met before - Patroclus was sure about that. But something about that serious demeanor and the mild-mannered way in which he spoke - it reminded him of someone. 

“Pardon me for asking, Second Lieutenant. But you wouldn’t happen to be from Laconia, would you?” 

There was that look - that instant brightening of expression - he had seen it time and time again, every time he correctly guessed where someone was from. Hellenes were extremely proud of the regions they came from. 

“How did you know?” Second Lieutenant Stratichus questioned, his serious expression immediately melting into a warm smile. 

“A mere guess,” Patroclus replied.  
“And I would hate to be wrong, but - you wouldn’t happen to be a member of House Laconia?”

“You are correct,” the second lieutenant replied. “It is not everyday I hear of home.” 

So this was one of Thrasymedes’s brothers, Patroclus marveled. 

Was it truly such a small world, that familiar faces were found in every direction? On either side? 

Thrasymedes had been a good friend of Achilles’s for years. But Patroclus had never expected one of his brothers to enlist in the army itself, showing support for Achilles’s rule. It was so easy to label these soldiers as cruel men, who blindly followed and partook in the suffering of innocent people. 

But what if he had dined in the halls of their home? What if he knew their families so closely? Was it really so easy then, to see them that way? 

There were friends and enemies everywhere, Patroclus realized. It made things all the more difficult, when loyalties were spread out like this. If only things were simple. If only things were black and white.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next day, he was taken around the compound. It was much larger than it initially seemed. The camp buildings went row after row, until he had almost lost count. There was no sign of the prisoners, it was dead quiet. 

“I would like to see them,” he told Stratichus, as they strode past to the other side of the camp. 

The second lieutenant cast him a look of disbelief. 

“I am not sure that is a good idea …”

“I came here to inspect the camps, Second Lieutenant. How am I supposed to give my account to Achilles if I have not even seen the prisoners?” 

Stratichus seemed to consider this for a moment. 

“You may observe us during spot checks,” he decided. 

“I would like to see everything,” Patroclus replied. “How they live, where they sleep, where they eat. And the mines …”

Stratichus frowned at this. “I am not sure you are permitted to see the mines, prince. It is a safety regulation. Even us soldiers do not all go to the mines.” 

“Perhaps you could put in a word to Captain Euphorbos for me?” Patroclus inquired. 

He stared at the second lieutenant, seeing him shift in discomfort. 

“... I will try,” Stratichus replied, finally. “But it is no guarantee.”

Patroclus nodded, satisfied with this.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Line up!” 

He could hear the guardsman barking orders, and the sounds of shuffling as people inside hurried to obey. 

This was it. 

Patroclus could feel Stratichus watching him, making sure he was not getting cold feet. 

He took a deep breath and stepped inside the building, where there were guards standing at the entrance. 

He felt his entire body tensing up, catching his first glimpse of one of the rooms. 

The camp was a long line of separate holding cells, with rows of bunks in each. What was most shocking was that they didn’t have doors - a sure sign of hopelessness, that the prisoners would live out their days seeing those wide open doorways, knowing there was no chance of escape regardless. 

As the guards continued yelling, each cell was quickly emptied, the prisoners rushing to line up outside as a spot check was conducted. 

Patroclus tried not to flinch as guards stormed into the cells, emptying out bunks, turning over mattresses and throwing objects onto the ground. 

He looked up, and made eye contact with one of the prisoners standing against the wall. 

He had his list of names. The one so carefully compiled by Briseis, painstaking hours of reading their letters. Now, there was no way of knowing. 

He forced himself to scan each and every face. All the while, looking for a familiar one. 

“Is this done every day?” he asked Stratichus, softly. 

The second lieutenant shook his head.  
“At random,” he replied. “So they don’t know when to expect it.” 

Patroclus had no idea _what_ the spot checks could possibly be for. In a prison without doors, how could the inmates have any chance of hiding contraband objects?

He walked up to the inmate he had made eye contact with. 

“Hello.” 

The man opened his mouth to speak, then eyed Stratichus nervously. 

“Prince,” Stratichus chided, but Patroclus shot him a look. 

There was no reason why he could not speak to them, with someone supervising. 

“What is your name?” Patroclus asked. 

“Peisander, sir.” 

Patroclus wracked his brain, trying to think if the name had been on the list. It had not. 

The other inmates were now daring to look up, staring at Patroclus in curiosity. 

“What are they looking for?” Patroclus questioned, beckoning at the guards. 

“Contraband. Sharp objects, food, things like that,” Peisander replied. 

“Food?” Patroclus repeated, and shot Stratichus another look. 

The second lieutenant shrugged. “They are not allowed to take food out of the mess hall.” 

“I never knew a piece of bread could be forged into a weapon. But perhaps there is a way,” Patroclus replied, making Peisander smirk a little. 

The second lieutenant sighed, and he knew he was pushing it. 

“Are you treated well?” Patroclus continued asking. 

He knew he was not going to get the truth, but he wanted to talk to the prisoners anyway. 

Peisander glanced at the second lieutenant again. At a resigned nod, he answered.  
“As well as can be, sir. We have meals three times a day. We wash our own clothes and we keep our bunks clean.” 

It was a rehearsed answer, as though it had been drilled into him over and over until he knew what to say. Patroclus bit his lip, unsure what to think about this. 

When the spot checks were completed, the prisoners were allowed to return to their bunks. 

“Do they stay in there all day?” Patroclus queried. 

“They come out to the mess hall during meal times. You’ll see it later.”

“Who is working at the mines currently?”

“It is also done at random,” Stratichus replied.  
“Before dawn, they are woken up to draw the lot. The numbers are called out, and they line up outside to be taken to the mines. They start work at sunrise.” 

“I would like to be there the next time the lot is drawn,” Patroclus decided. 

Stratichus did not look happy about it, but did not disagree.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

How light the sky was, he thought. He had not even registered that nighttime had passed. 

All he heard was the alarm for the morning lot, it rang so loudly nobody could have possibly slept through it. 

After his first evening at the camps, Captain Euphorbos had approved his wish to see the mines. Now, he stood in the dreaded cold with as many layers as he could get around himself, seeing the prisoners queueing up outside each camp. 

The sentries at the watchtowers stood at the ready. If anyone made a move, they would be injured or killed immediately. 

Up till then, Patroclus had not been exposed to the full nature of Camp Crisa. 

Now, eyes roaming over the many faces, young and old, the full horror of it dawned on him. It was a silent sort of horror - grey and weary, slowly seeping into the soul rather than catching it by surprise. 

Many of the prisoners emerged looking sleep-ridden; yet they were quickly on alert, as one of the soldiers stood on a platform and announced the numbers for the morning. 

There was an odd, sick humor to it - the blank stares of the officers, the way they all crowded around to hear who had gotten the numbers … it was like a game. Patroclus could not comprehend it. 

“42!” the soldier announced, and an old man emerged from the crowd, going to stand by the group that was going to the mines. 

His shoulders drooped further and further as he walked - when he passed by, it was all Patroclus could take not to surge forward, not to do _something_. 

There were soldiers in every direction, and Second Lieutenant Stratichus was standing right behind him. 

He counted exactly fifty people. Each one more resigned than the last, as though they had accepted their fate long ago. 

Before the sun had even risen, the fifty people were led over to the carts that would take them to their day’s work. The other prisoners were sent back to the camps. 

Second Lieutenant Stratichus gave Patroclus a hesitant look, as though questioning whether he still wanted to go. 

“You will escort me, Second Lieutenant?” Patroclus asked, even though his voice wavered a little. 

Stratichus nodded, and they hopped into the driver’s seat of one of the carts. Patroclus looked over his shoulder at the prisoners sitting inside, their tools clutched against them. After a few minutes, he couldn’t look anymore.  
\---

It was a long ride to the mines. The road was so uneven, their wheels got stuck several times. It delayed them even further, and once they got on the road again, everyone was already exhausted. 

Half of the prisoners were in no way adequately dressed for hard labor in brutal winter weather. Yet no one seemed to care. 

In the middle of the trip, commotion broke out from the cart behind them. 

Patroclus turned to look, but Stratichus stopped him.

“Don’t look,” he said. 

“What’s going on?” 

More yelling. The sound of beating. 

This time Patroclus straightened and turned around, just in time to see the old man from before throwing himself from the cart. 

His hand reached out, from reflex, even though it was too far away. 

“Stop! Stop!” Patroclus yelled, his heart pounding wildly, seeing the old man hit the ground.  
“Stop the cart!” 

No one would listen to him. 

“ _Second Lieutenant_ ,” Patroclus pleaded, catching hold of Stratichus’s arm.  
“Someone has fallen.” 

“ _I told you not to look_ ,” Stratichus growled in reply. 

“Wait - stop the cart! _Wait_!” Patroclus screamed, but just a second later - and he covered his eyes with his hands - the sound of bone crunching could be heard, as the carts behind ran right over the fallen man.  
“Oh gods,” Patroclus gasped, with his eyes still covered. 

He was so overcome with terror he could not even move. 

The rest of the trip was silent. 

He felt his hands were stuck to his mouth, he could not get that image out of his head, that sound. The man had perhaps already been dead. But what if … and he shook his head hard. 

This had to be a regular event, if no one had even blinked at someone ending their life this way right before they made it to the mines. 

Perhaps this was the only way out, if the prisoners were constantly monitored back at the camps. 

He wondered if he would do the same.  
\-----------------------------------

He didn’t see the mines until they arrived. 

Slowly, each prisoner dismounted from the cart, carrying their chisels and pickaxes. 

They gathered in a line, then followed a long rope that marked their path. 

Beyond them, the ground seemed to get lower and lower, and as Patroclus rushed forward - he could see a great pit below, like the abyss in his darker dreams. There was barely any light to see by, barely any warmth. It would be all too easy to slip and fall to one’s death here. 

And he had a feeling - this was what generally happened. 

All the prisoners had was that one rope to guide them. And their hands would be full, carving at the rock until they got to the precious metals beneath. 

If they fell, no one would be able to find them at the bottom. If they didn’t die instantly, it would be a slower death than the man from before. 

“What happens after this?” Patroclus asked, finally finding his voice again. 

“They work until sundown. It will be too dark after then - we gather the survivors, and go back to camp. The whole process repeats again the next day.” 

The next day.  
Patroclus shuddered. If one didn’t die in the mines the first time, then surely the second time. If not the second time, then surely the third.  
It was a slow death sentence - and the wait had to be torture. 

To be burdened with this fate, all because someone had known the wrong person; or talked to the wrong person, or _helped_ the wrong person … 

“Have you seen enough?” Stratichus asked, grim. 

He pressed his lips together. If he stayed, there was nothing he could do to help the prisoners. 

But now he understood. Now he understood what happened to them. It was a possibility that many who had written the letters were already dead.


	29. Chapter 29

True to the second lieutenant’s words, the carts returned after sundown. Patroclus did not see how many people there were, but there were certainly less than fifty. He tried to think of each face, tried to remember it. But he found he had forgotten some of them. 

He cursed himself, struggling to remember. But what was the use? Remembering those faces would not bring them back. 

The events of the morning stayed with him. It was shocking to him how normally the day seemed to pass, how quiet and ordinary Camp Crisa remained. Every so often, soldiers would march by, and from his window he could see the prisoners herded into the mess hall like sheep. 

This was their normal, he realized. This was their reality. And now he had stayed there longer than a day, it was becoming his too. And he had to shake himself out of it, had to picture the world outside. 

For the prisoners, it was too much to do so.   
\------------------------------------------------------

He spent his second night there visiting the infirmary. 

Stratichus had cautioned him against it - sick people, who had spent too long inhaling the dust, until their lungs were damaged beyond salvaging. Injured people, whose wounds were infected. 

“How many physicians are there to see to the ill?” Patroclus asked. 

Stratichus did not answer for a long time. 

“One.” 

_One_. Patroclus grimaced. Clearly there was no concern for keeping these people alive. After all, weren’t there more brought in every month? He thought of the road to Phrygia, and Polyxena’s efforts to organize the safehouses. They had agreed that they wouldn’t save everyone. 

Yet, here, he was getting a look at what exactly happened to the people who fell through the cracks, and it was not so easy to stay unattached. He had promised he would be strong. One needed a strong stomach, to come here and see this. 

But he was not made of iron. There were holes and cracks, and he could feel himself chipping away, falling apart bit by bit the longer he stayed in this spirit-destroying place. 

How any of the prisoners managed to keep their sanity, he did not know. How people like Peisander managed to look him in the eye, and speak to him, he did not know.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------

He remembered a day in Troy, on the first anniversary of the queen’s death. It had been the first time he had visited her tomb. Evander had nagged at him to no end, making sure he dressed appropriately, admonishing him for the slightest wrong movement. 

All to step foot in a mausoleum as cold and unfeeling as its stone walls - it had been the only time he’d felt sorry for Paris. He’d reached out a hand, and their fingers had touched. 

And he thought, for a second, that the prince would let him hold his hand - only to have it slapped away a moment later. 

It had stung. But he had also understood. 

Standing here now, he was brought back to that feeling. 

His eyes watered at the smell. The beds were arranged meticulously, but they were just about the only things in the room given any care - including the people who lay in them. 

Not all of the patients were dying - some were recovering from injuries, broken bones or wounds from the mines, or beaten by soldiers. 

He looked to the left and caught a patient’s eye. This was a young man, perhaps as young as Glaucus, perhaps even younger. He looked like Glaucus too, and for a second, all Patroclus could see was the face of his friend. 

“Are you here to take me away?” the man asked, wide-eyed.   
He had an odd look on his face, as though he wasn’t quite there. His leg was bandaged, and when Patroclus took a second look, he felt the bile rise up his throat. The toes on the man’s foot were black and rotted. 

“Take - take you where?” Patroclus asked, and slowly approached. 

In the entrance, the guard was watching their movements. 

The man did not answer for a while. He kept staring at Patroclus, but it was a sort of half-stare. As though he were looking right through him. 

“I kept waiting. And waiting. You never came.” His voice was breathy, as though it tired him out just to speak. 

“... I …” Who did the man think Patroclus was? 

“I’m here,” Patroclus managed. “I’m here now.” 

“Well, you kept me waiting for a long time,” the man said, reached out, and touched his hand. 

Patroclus knew the guard was still watching, and moved so that his body blocked any sight of this. 

The man’s hand was cold. All he could think about was Glaucus, those youthful eyes, that smile - 

And suddenly, the wetness in his eyes was not from the smell. He looked down, and closed his fingers around the hand. The man gave a short hum. 

“We’ll leave, then?”

Patroclus knew he was far gone, the infection from his wounds eating away at his brain. 

“Where would you like to go?” he breathed out, choking on the sentence.

“Don’t know. Didn’t we always say Olympia … but that’s too far away.” 

“Olympia it is,” Patroclus whispered, and his voice did give out, this time. 

“Tomorrow?” the man asked. 

“Tomorrow.” 

The man gave a nod, and squeezed Patroclus’s hand in contentment. 

At that very moment - he had never wanted Achilles so badly.  
\---

Later on, Patroclus found out the man died several hours after. He wished he had known his name.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was so cold that day that even the soldiers could not stand being outside for long, and stepped into the prisoners’ mess hall for some shelter. 

The sound of cups and bowls being moved around permeated the air - Patroclus had taken a look at the meal schedule. On paper, there seemed to be nothing wrong with it. In the morning, each prisoner was given a piece of bread and a cup of tea. In the afternoon, there was boiled potato or peas. In the evening, a broth. 

But then he saw exactly what the food looked like, and recoiled from it. There was barely enough of it to sustain a person for one meal, let alone three. In the mess hall, he could barely keep his anger and disgust under control - seeing each prisoner walk from the food distribution line to their tables, as though they should be grateful for a bowl of overcooked peas that would not have been enough for a small child. 

He was so angry he couldn’t stand being near the soldiers. 

He walked to each table instead, conversing with the prisoners, hoping it would prove some distraction - for himself, or for them, he didn’t know. 

Many of them were too nervous to talk to him - but a few of the younger ones did. The newer ones, he could tell. He asked all of their names, where they were from, and what their parents did. 

He was in the middle of this when he felt someone staring at him, and turned to find an elderly man with greying hair and a beard. 

The man stared and stared - it took looking twice, but Patroclus started with recognition. 

“Lord Pedasus?” 

The man had clearly lost weight, and his time here had aged him. But the face was the same.   
That distinguished look to him, that stubbornness with which he had dragged his daughter to the dance floor. This was Briseis’s father, whom she had so desperately been searching for. 

And if she had never searched - if she’d never had the courage to come to House Pelides, Patroclus would have still been ignorant to all of this. 

Funny how some decisions could change lives, no matter how insignificant they seemed. 

Patroclus now believed there was no such thing as an insignificant decision. 

Lord Pedasus swallowed.

“P … Prince Paris?” 

“Yes, it’s me.” 

Then Briseis’s father did the unexpected. 

He got up and threw himself at Patroclus’s feet. 

“Please - it was a mistake! You must tell him! You must tell Pelides it was a mistake!” 

“Please, get up,” Patroclus replied in alarm, glancing back at the soldiers still huddled at the other end of the hall. 

One of them noticed and moved to come forward, but Patroclus held up a hand to show him nothing was the matter. 

The other prisoners had been watching and now whispered amongst themselves. 

“You are the prince - surely he will listen to you. I beg you, I did not conspire against him! It was all just a foolish misunderstanding!” Lord Pedasus continued pleading. 

And then the hall seemed to erupt around them. 

“Prince, prince - my name is Hedistus, from Malea. I have always supported the revolution, I would never conspire against Pelides - if you could talk to him for me -” Hedistus was shoved aside. 

“My name is Cyanippus from Mases. I sheltered a runaway not knowing who they were -”

“Please help me!” 

“Perhaps you could tell him who I am -”

Patroclus’s mind was swimming, as the prisoners flocked around him, each telling him who they were and what had gotten them here. Each somehow believing he could help them talk to Achilles. 

Some of them gave him letters they had written to their families, but had not sent, in suspicion that the letters were being intercepted. He grabbed these, stuffing as many as he could into his pockets. 

And that was when the soldiers intervened. 

“Order around here!” came the yelling, and many prisoners were dragged away and beaten, or simply shoved back until they returned to their seats. 

“Prince Paris, you will remember?” Lord Pedasus called.   
“You will remember to tell him?” 

“Lord Pedasus, I know your daughter!” Patroclus yelled back, in the tumult. 

“Briseis?” Lord Pedasus questioned, appalled. 

“She is searching for you! I will tell her I saw you!” 

Lord Pedasus’s face crumpled. 

“Briseis …” 

He sat right back down before the soldiers could get to him. An old man, defeated.   
\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Captain Euphorbos’s pen tapped against his desk, and Patroclus forced himself not to fidget. Did the man blink? he wondered. 

“... So. As much as an _honor_ it is that you are here, you simply _cannot_ cause a disturbance like that. It is dangerous, you see. They could have swarmed you.”

“They meant no harm. They were simply trying to explain how they ended up here -”

“Ended up here?” The captain gave a little laugh, and suddenly, Patroclus couldn’t _stand_ the man.   
“Some prisoners, you see, are eager to convince others of their own delusions.” 

“They seemed of sound mind to me.” 

“What’s that you have there?”   
The captain tilted his head.   
“My men informed me that they handed you something?” 

“I have already cleared the items with Second Lieutenant Stratichus,” Patroclus stated, impatient. 

“There is an order that the letters are not to be received by the courier service,” Captain Stratichus replied.   
He made a tutting sound, as though scolding a child, leaned over his desk and retrieved the letters right from Patroclus’s pocket.   
“There. That should settle that.” 

Patroclus could feel his blood boiling within him. He reached out and snatched the letters back, making the captain raise his eyebrows in surprise. 

“Now … prince. Surely even you know that -”

“I assure you, Captain. I mean for these to reach Achilles himself, even if he will not allow contact with the families.” 

Captain Euphorbos gazed at him for a long time. 

Then, he shrugged. 

“I suppose that’s fair. And timely - considering Pelides has sent for you to be returned home.” 

His blood turned to ice, going still in his veins. 

“What?” 

“Apparently … your visit here was never even approved. You can imagine what a fool I feel now.”

Patroclus fell silent. 

So the secret police had finally caught up. It had taken three days of him being here at Camp Crisa. 

“Where are they?” he asked, teeth gritted. 

“Waiting for you outside. They were courteous enough not to intrude.”   
The captain smiled.   
“And seeing as you are Pelides’s messenger, here to deliver pleas of innocence to the man himself - surely you can fit in another request? Tell him I am most apologetic for this mistake - but I am sure the repercussions will be fitting.” 

“I don’t think I need to tell him that,” Patroclus replied, stiff as a board.   
“Incompetence speaks for itself.” 

The captain’s smile dropped off his face, and Patroclus took it as his cue to leave. 

“Once again, I thank you for your hospitality. It is a shame Achilles never made it here to see it.” 

He rose, and turned to go, each footstep feeling like a deadweight as he drew nearer to the secret police faction, who would bring him back to Olympia. 

Back to Achilles. 

The playing board, overturned, in place of the truth that they both so struggled to face. 

He had accepted this the moment his mind was made up about Crisa. And now - it really was the point of no return.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Will you … say hello to Thrasymedes for me, if you see him?” Stratichus asked. 

Patroclus had been too busy studying the secret police faction, the soldiers under their command, to pay much attention. 

He turned to Stratichus.   
“Of course. If I see him.”

It was rather unlikely, he knew.

“I’m … sorry it has come to this,” Stratichus confessed. He looked uncomfortable saying so.   
“I had a feeling you weren’t here for Pelides … but I wasn’t sure.” 

“And you didn’t say anything?” 

Stratichus shrugged.   
“Why make things worse than they already are?”

Patroclus had so many questions. Why _had_ Stratichus, a noble son, joined Achilles’s ranks? Why would he continue, after all the horrors he had seen at the camps? He did not seem a bad man. But then … there was no way of knowing, was there?

“Look,” Stratichus whispered, eyeing the secret police faction. 

He beckoned Patroclus over, took out a bundle from his coat, and discreetly slid it into Patroclus’s pocket.   
“Some more for you. I confiscated them from the prisoners who didn’t get a chance to talk to you.” 

“I …” Patroclus reached over, and offered his hand.   
“You didn’t have to do this.” 

“It must mean something to you.”

“It does.”

“If we meet again, I hope it is under different circumstances,” Stratichus expressed. 

Friends and enemies, Patroclus thought, as he was led out of the gates, Camp Crisa behind him for good. Now he knew what the princes at Troy felt, brother against brother - friend against friend. There were times when the loyalties they chose divided them more than anything else.   
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Why did the journey back always seem shorter than coming up here? he wondered. This time, he was bundled comfortably in a carriage, something he was so used to. This time, the flags of Hellas at the side made him cringe. 

His escort did not talk to him, or make eye contact. The silence was nearly unbearable - trapped in a space with no one to talk to. Every time the wheels caught a bump in the road, he buried his face in his arms. It was like someone had rearranged his organs on the inside, because he felt all _wrong_. 

Was it fear? Was it fear that had taken hold of him, to go back to Achilles and admit what he’d done? 

Was it really the other man’s anger he was afraid of? Or was it something else?

He wasn’t sure exactly what he had gained from seeing the camps. He hadn’t even found the people on his list. 

But he had made a new list. He had heard their voices. And perhaps that was what had needed to happen - that they knew there was someone out there who would listen. 

It snowed on the way back. The individual snowflakes gathered against the window glass - it made him think of all the prisoners, made into a faceless number against their will. If there was only one who remembered that they were people, each different, each with their own desires … then _he_ had to be that person. 

Somewhere along the lines, he had made that choice.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was a rap on the window, and he started awake. He had no idea how he’d managed to get any sleep. Perhaps his mind had taken pity on him, going for a rest when he’d needed it the most. 

They were approaching House Pelides, and he felt his chest swell with comfort at the familiar streets. Yet, underneath it was a dread. He didn’t feel real anymore - it was like he had been taken out of his body, and was only watching what happened as the carriage pulled up, the door opening. 

His legs were light as air when he descended the steps. 

Before the carriage had even driven away, Chryseis was running out to greet him. 

“Paris!” 

He caught her by the arms, and they looked at each other for a moment - then he pulled her into a hug. He was so barren inside, so empty. The feeling of someone else’s affection breathed life back into him. 

“What is it? Where have you been?” she asked, worriedly. 

He dared not ask. 

“I … I need to …” He didn’t know what he needed. 

Chryseis seemed to understand. 

“Come. Let’s go up to your room, shall we?” 

He breathed a sigh of relief when she took his hand. He wasn’t even paying attention - it was a good thing she was there to lead him inside, up the stairs; or he might have gotten lost, in his own home, just as he was lost in his own mind.   
\------------------------------------

“I don’t know if I should leave you alone,” Chryseis frowned. 

She was hovering in the doorway, watching him sip at his tea. He drank it slowly, although he couldn’t quite stomach it. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. 

He had taken a bath and changed his clothes - the smell of clean laundry and fresh sheets should have been consoling. But they only seemed to make that hollow groove in his chest deepen, as though he were living in some illusion that would go away as soon as he blinked hard enough. 

“I’m alright, Chryseis. Could you let Glaucus know that I’m back?”

Being given a task seemed to quell her concern. She reached over and rubbed his shoulder. 

“Of course, dear. I’ll be right back.”

When she was gone, he got up from the bed and paced to the window. 

How beautiful House Pelides was in autumn, he thought. Reds and yellows and browns. He could have stared at the scenery for days. It had once been enough to feed his searching soul. 

And now, it left the taste of sorrow in him. A room of lost things. What would happen when everything he touched became lost to him?   
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was dark outside, and he had lit the lamps. He was very cold, even though it wasn’t quite chilly in Olympia yet. He sat on the floor, and Korax padded over to him and settled over his lap.

“You always know how to keep warm, don’t you, boy?” he asked, but his voice was weak. 

He stroked the soft head lovingly - took the velvety ears in his hands and examined them. A companion of his, to wait at the window for someone he loved. 

The front door downstairs opened and slammed shut. 

Korax lifted his head - there were footsteps in the hallway. He knew those footsteps anywhere. 

He tightened his hand over the dog’s fur, begging him to stay. But Korax got up, and hurried out the room to greet Achilles. 

He was left sitting on the floor, cold and uneasy. 

He had heard once that fear tended to paralyze people - but he had never known that grief could do the same. 

No matter how he tried, his legs would not move. He was stuck where he was, and it overwhelmed him. 

Those footsteps came up the stairs, one by one. The sound of the other man, the rhythm he had come to know over the years. He hadn’t realized how much he had been holding back, to protect himself, to wear the hard shell that the real Paris would have known to wear. 

But he was not the real Paris. He was not made of iron. Whatever armor he had conjured up for himself crumbled to dust, unprepared. 

The door to their bedroom inched open, and there Achilles was, standing in the doorway. 

Those eyes, finding him. 

And it hurt more than he had expected, because as long as he had been trying to mask the hurt, he had allowed it to consume him. 

And now he was weak and alone, sitting on the floor of their bedroom in his night things, looking up at the man he loved, who had done those things to those people. 

He opened his mouth to speak. 

“I’m home,” he croaked out. 

He stared hard at Achilles, feeling the full weight of his gaze - roaming over the outline of him, because his eyes could not help it. They knew nothing but to love - every inch of skin and every width of hair, it cut more and more the longer he looked. 

Wasn’t there some story about a woman who could turn people into stone? 

He felt like that now - his skin hardening to granite, cracking over his limbs. Trapped in a body where the chest was hollow, because the heart had been given to someone else, and now what was left could not possibly withstand the harshness of the world outside. 

Achilles did not say anything. 

Here was the truth laid before them, and confronted with it, they fought to come out. 

“Are you going to speak to me?” Patroclus managed. 

“I don’t know what to say,” Achilles replied, evenly. 

“Anything.” 

“I don’t want to say anything. I don’t even want to look at you.”

Patroclus closed his eyes. 

“Then why are you here?” 

A long pause. 

“To give you a chance to explain.” 

“Don’t you want to know what happened?”

“What could I learn that I don’t already know? But I am here. As long as I am here, I will listen.” 

“I saw them,” Patroclus replied. “I spoke to them.”

It was so _strange_ , as though he were having an ordinary conversation with Achilles. 

All of a sudden he wanted to tell the man everything. Everything he had witnessed - and some part of him wanted to be offered comfort, as though it would be alright. 

He bit his lip. 

“A lot of them died. I suppose you were right. What I did was for nothing - I had a list of names, you know. But I didn’t find them.” 

Achilles was really looking at him now, slightly confused at how he was confiding in him. 

“I did say time would show you,” he replied, slowly. 

“Yes. Time.” 

Achilles’s brows were drawn together, thinking.

“Are you going to stop now? Now that you see there is nothing to be done?” 

“Stop?” Patroclus paused. 

It was so easy. It was so easy to say he would. 

And then they would go back to the way they were. 

But they would never go back, he knew. Those two people had existed at one time and place. Those two people, who had danced together, and played music together, and learned about each other. It would never be the same. And he could not live with an idea. He could not live his life lost, struggling to make his way back to what had been.

“No, I did not say that.”   
He looked Achilles in the eye.   
“Don’t you see? I will never stop.”

Achilles’s mouth turned down. He had been expecting it. 

But he was only human, just as Patroclus was. Right there in his eyes, there had been a part of him hoping for it too. 

Achilles abruptly stepped in and walked over to the end table, where there was a tray with crystal glasses and a decanter of liquor. 

He very slowly poured himself a glass. 

It was not like him - stiff and sluggish, so far from his usual relaxed movements. 

“Achilles.” 

Patroclus got his legs to move a little, and sat up, the pins and needles creeping all the way up his hips. He winced and got up. 

He went over to Achilles, not knowing what it was he was trying to do. He reached a hand out, to touch the other man’s arm. Only to stop himself and retreat. 

They had once known exactly how to talk to each other. And now he had to relearn it, relearn the words that would reach the other man. 

“I brought some things back for you.” 

“Oh?” Achilles raised an eyebrow, looking back at him a little.

“If you look inside my desk drawer, there are people who have been trying to reach their families. I hid it from you before. But I want you to read them. Will you do that?” 

“I don’t want to hear about this.”

“Will you read them?” 

With that, Achilles slammed his glass against the table. It shattered against the edge, the pieces against the floor. 

“What do you want from me?!” he yelled. 

He walked up to Patroclus, so their faces were close to each other. 

“You say you will keep on doing this. What do you expect me to do? You think I could -” He was gripping Patroclus’s arm, hard, and looked down at it. 

“What do you expect me to do?” he asked again, softer, his expression hurt, and confused.   
He took a deep breath.   
“You have just told me there is nothing that will change your mind. After everything you _promised_ me -”

“I have given you everything,” Patroclus replied.   
“My life. Everything.” 

His arm shook a little where Achilles was touching it. 

It wasn’t too late. They were so close. 

He could throw himself into Achilles’s arms, and beg him for forgiveness, and Achilles would forgive him. He would.

He hated himself for even thinking it. But it was not so easy to forget what it was like to be in the other man’s arms. 

“But I will not stand by and watch you destroy these people.” 

Achilles let go of his arm, his face turning blank. 

His arm burned, wanting that touch again. 

“And I can’t stand by and watch you -” 

There was a stone in his throat, keeping him from getting it out. 

“Watch you -” 

That fear, that had overtaken him. He knew where it came from, now. 

“Destroy _yourself_.” 

And he put his face in his hands, because he could not look at Achilles just then. 

He heard Achilles stagger away. Heard him settle down in a chair a few feet away, heard him breathe. 

He was left standing in the corner of the room, hands over his face, and the distance between them might as well have been an ocean. 

Had they ever lived in the same worlds? he wondered. 

“Do you know what the worst part is?” Achilles asked, and his voice was light and airy, as though he were keeping it from breaking.

He looked hard at Patroclus. 

“That the one -” Something caught in his throat, and he cleared it, shaking it off. 

“That the _one_ person I love -”   
All of a sudden, his voice started to waver, and he had to let out a breath, expression stilling, trying desperately to compose himself.   
“- thinks me a monster.” 

Patroclus felt he had been plunged into cold water. Nothing had ever cut so deep as that. 

Achilles shook his head again, his face flickering between cold indifference and resigned defeat. How long he had been masking it, Patroclus did not know. 

“That isn’t true,” Patroclus breathed out. 

Achilles’s expression _did_ break then, and he turned his face away. 

“That isn’t _true_ ,” Patroclus said, and crossed the room to him. 

He put his hands on Achilles’s face, afraid the touch would be rejected. 

A moment later, Achilles reached up and held onto his wrist. 

“It’s not true, it’s _not_.”

“It is,” Achilles said, gently, finally having collected himself. 

Patroclus looked up at him, traced his fingers over the smooth skin. 

He was torn into pieces, yet every part that remained wanting nothing but to offer solace. 

He looked into those eyes, that were not the green of the forest or the vines. Clouded with despair, with hopelessness, when he had never wanted to be the reason they were there.

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he said, and buried his head in Achilles’s lap. 

The fabric was soaked through with his tears. Everything he had held back, and he didn’t even have the strength to let Achilles see his face. 

“ _Sorry_ ,” he mumbled, though it came out like gibberish, his voice was so thick. 

“No, please don’t,” Achilles said. His hand came over Patroclus’s hair, and down to his shoulders. 

Then he reached over and pulled him up, took him into his arms, and how _warm_ it felt, how _safe_ , everything he had ever wanted. 

“I did this. Now I have to face it.” 

“Alright,” Patroclus said, and laid his head on Achilles’s shoulder. 

“Just give me a minute,” Achilles said, and wiped Patroclus’s tears away.   
“Can you give me that?” 

Patroclus nodded. 

The lamp was burning out, and the room was bathed in darkness. 

He could summon some courage to look at Achilles’s face now, to trace his fingers over the features. 

An hour passed. Two. He wasn’t sure. 

“Did you ever hate me?” he asked, thinking of the times they had sat at the dinner table, veiled words between them. Of the times he had caught Achilles looking at him, and shrunk back under his gaze. 

“Never,” Achilles said. 

“But you were angry with me.” 

“I was.”

_Anger and happiness. They come and go. And I would rather you be angry with me, and happy with me, than for all that to go away with your love._

He did not dare ask the question. 

And what did it matter? There was no changing how things had turned out. 

But at the same time, he needed to let the other man know, in his own way. 

He touched Achilles’s chin.

“We went on an adventure together, didn’t we, my love?”

Achilles squeezed his eyes shut. Those lines beneath his lashes, keeping the light of his eyes away. 

He pulled Patroclus closer, touching their noses together. 

“We did.” 

Those arms around him felt good. Living together in a dream - one they had built together, against the current of time. 

Achilles had asked for a minute. What he gave him was something else - some part of his thoughts he kept shielded from the world, a glimpse of a place that didn’t exist. 

He thought he could feel those pieces rearranging themselves. The emptiness in his chest - seemed full again, just for a moment.   
How many nights had they spent in here? How long had he known this was someone with whom he could brave the silences?   
Ever since Achilles had come up to his window, he thought, and smiled.

He felt as though he had found something lost, and it was his again. 

And now he had the strength. Shards of it, at least, enough to get him through. 

He pressed his face against Achilles’s, laid his cheek against the other’s cheek. 

Held him so tightly, afraid of ever letting him out of his grasp. 

“I have to go,” he said, and another tear slipped out, even though he was trying hard. 

Achilles frowned, and nodded. 

“I know.” 

“Could I -” he bit his lip. “Have an hour?”   
He took a deep breath, and wiped his face.   
“To pack my things? I won’t take much.” 

Achilles nodded again.   
“As long as you need.” 

Then he buried his face against Patroclus’s neck, and began to weep.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He did not want to leave Achilles’s arms. But a while later, they untangled themselves from each other, and he went and packed his things. The routine movement helped settle him for a while. His eyes were dry, and while his body ached, it was bearable. He had a small headache from all the tears he had shed. 

Chryseis was crying when she helped him pack. He had never seen her cry before. 

When they were finished, she closed his suitcase, went to the kitchen, and came back with a basket stuffed full with food. Then she went away before he could say anything. 

“Korax,” he whispered, when he was alone in the room with the dog.   
“You take good care of everyone here, alright? I know you will.” 

He hadn’t allowed himself to be sad about it. His dog, given to him by someone who had wanted to make him happy. Now he would leave him behind, for there were other people who needed companionship more. 

He sat on the bed. Felt the sheets under his palms, where he had slept when he was tired, rested when he was ill; where he had laughed with Achilles in the middle of the night, argued with Achilles in the middle of the night, made love with Achilles in the middle of the night. It was hard to say goodbye to such familiarity. Wasn’t it always? 

Achilles came into the room and sat next to him on the bed. He put his arm around him. 

“Alright?” he asked. 

Patroclus nodded. 

He turned to Achilles. 

“Thank you for -” he swallowed.   
“For giving me a home.”

And what a home it had been. 

“It will always be yours,” Achilles replied, tentatively.   
The rest of it was too difficult to say. 

They had been doing so well, until now. 

They had fallen into step, and handled it as gently as they could. 

But then Achilles gripped his hand hard, and looked at the floor. 

“Can I ask you?” 

“Achilles -” 

“Please don’t go.”

He knew it took everything for Achilles to ask it. To lay himself so bare. 

There were a few seconds of silence. 

He leaned over, and blew out the lamp, so they were left in darkness. 

“Achilles Nobody from Phthia,” he said, softly. 

That Achilles. And _that_ Achilles. And all of the things the man was. 

To take one away was to never know him at all.

“Do you remember?” he asked.

“Hmm?” 

“When I told you that love is only faith to hold on to, that it will get you to the other side?” 

Achilles was silent for a while. 

“I remember.”

“Then you know that no matter where I am, you need only to close your eyes. Even when the darkness conceals it, you will know I am there.” 

Achilles was gripping his hand even tighter than ever. 

Patroclus gently tugged his hand away, reached up and placed his fingertips over Achilles’s eyelids.

“Close your eyes, love.”

He didn’t want Achilles to see him walking away. 

He couldn’t bear it if he did.

“Patroclus,” Achilles said. 

“Don’t look.”

“Alright,” Achilles replied, after a while. 

He backed away slowly, stopping in the doorway, that last image of Achilles in the shadows ingrained in his memory for all time. 

“Keep your eyes closed.”

“I will.” 

“Alright,” he said, trying to keep his voice light. 

And then he turned around, and his perfect composure was gone for good. 

He stuffed his knuckles into his mouth and bit hard on them, stopping from breathing hard even as his face contorted painfully.   
\--------------------

To avoid breaking down before he could reach the front door, he moved quickly and focused on balancing his things in his arms. 

Glaucus was waiting on the front steps for him. 

“Here,” his friend said, and took the luggage from him. 

Patroclus walked away quickly, unable to stand even the slightest consoling touch. He saw the carriage and made his way to it. 

“Goodbye, Chryseis,” he heard Glaucus say, when she came to the door.   
“Take care of yourself. Goodbye.” 

They hugged, and when Glaucus finally made it over, Patroclus lifted a hand and managed a small wave at the woman who had always been kind to him.   
She kept the door open, and the light wrapped around her slim figure, even as the carriage took off and House Pelides grew further behind them. 

Glaucus was silent, but he patted Patroclus’s arm. 

“It’s alright,” he said, even though he could not hide his wistful tone.

“Of course it’s alright,” Patroclus replied. 

One second. Two.

Then the dam broke, and out it came from him. Some low, moaning sound from deep within, and he couldn’t stop it. 

He gazed at Glaucus in alarm, but his friend only gave him a solemn look. 

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Glaucus repeated, his default chant when things were most certainly the opposite. 

“Say, have you ever seen so many stars in the city? Look.”

He looked, and that animal sound continued, until it could go on no more. 

It really was a beautiful sky that night. 

And he fell asleep to it, leaning against Glaucus, the carriage rocking around them. 

Whatever little things could soothe the greatest of wounds, he would take them. 

One last night of dreaming - before whatever beyond was laid upon the path.


	30. Chapter 30

“Charge!” 

The sound of hooves pounding against the ground, clouds of dust kicked up in the air. Hunched figures in their saddles, their weapons catching the light every so often. 

They rode with a desperate fervor, focused on their target. 

“Attack!” 

The metallic clang of swords slashing, of daggers being drawn; human cries, voices carrying. 

Patroclus watched all this in silence. 

“What do you think?” he asked. 

Next to him, Diomedes shifted his weight, a keen eye over the warriors.   
“Acceptable,” he grunted. 

Patroclus made a dissatisfied noise. All these months of training - a mere _acceptable_ was not enough. But then, what could they do? They were not a professional army. They were men and women, some veterans of the armed forces, some civilians - ones who were brave enough to take up arms against the soldiers of the secret police. 

Their strength was not in skill - but in the element of surprise. Sooner or later, though, it would wear off. They had been fighting sporadically, using Glaucus’s intelligence to figure out where the soldiers were headed. In the months they had been at work, more and more people were being rescued and smuggled to Phrygia to escape the camps. 

They had faced triumphs and losses together. But it was getting more dangerous. Throughout Olympia, many of Glaucus’s old meeting places were being raided. Suspected spies were hanged in public. 

Olympia was a breath away from breaking out into chaos, Patroclus had heard. Diomedes described it as a pebble seated on the edge of a cliff - a mere rumble was all it took to fall over the edge.

This was the longest Patroclus had ever been away from the city. It seemed so far away now - and he had no intention of going back. Once the guerrilla movement had taken off in the countryside, he had left to join them. They served as a line of defense for the people, if it could even be called that.  
\--------------------------------

It was pitch dark in the room, he could barely see his own hand when he held it in front of his face. There was a red glow around the curtains, telling him sunrise was a mere second away. 

Pedasus was like this in the mornings - strange and eerie, as though it were a part of the world washed anew every time. It did not have Elis’s charms, or Laconia’s mystique, but it was something on its own. 

He had come to learn this about every region in Hellas. Each seemed to have a heart, a soul, a voice of its own born from the ghosts of its people and the rich history they shared.   
Right now, Pedasus was lost. And they were trying desperately to restore it. 

“Glaucus?” he voiced, creeping over to the bed next to his. 

He touched a hand on the other man’s shoulder. 

Glaucus was nothing but a clump of hair under the sheets.   
“Mmph.”

“Glaucus?” he tried again, prodding the man and pulling the covers back a little. 

Glaucus shifted a little and threw his arm out.   
“I want toast.” 

Patroclus paused, squinting in the darkness to make out his friend’s face. It was often hard to tell if Glaucus was talking in his sleep.  
“Are you awake?”

“Tomatoes, tomatoes,” Glaucus grunted, made a satisfied hum, and turned over. 

Patroclus waited for a second, then sighed. 

He didn’t know what it was about him recently. It was as though he couldn’t bear these quiet hours, when the sun rose and when the sun set. He would stay up well into the night, hoping for someone to talk to. If there wasn’t, the sense of emptiness became crippling.   
Glaucus proved his best distraction for this - but even Glaucus had to sleep.   
\---

He stumbled around, trying to find his clothes. In a way, it was refreshing, always being on the move. He’d heard of people who lived out of a suitcase. And now he was one of them. He couldn’t remember whose house they were staying in, it all started to blend together after a while. 

Sometimes he missed those days in Olympia, right after he had left House Pelides. He and Glaucus had crammed themselves into the other man’s tiny apartment. 

It had been then that he’d realized exactly what a sheltered life he’d lived. 

“Commoner,” he’d said to himself, and snorted. He had thought himself a commoner. How he had grown up was far from how commoners went about their lives. 

It had been another winter’s night and the heating was off. He couldn’t sleep because he felt his toes had turned into icicles. Whenever he did manage to drift off, he would dream deeply. And the dreams caused such distress within him that he forced himself awake. 

At times he would startle awake in the middle of the night, only to let out a short yell, because there was a figure standing in the doorway. 

A ghostly figure, grey around the edges, hovering by the wall as though it was lost. 

He would squeeze his eyes shut, willing it to go away. 

And then he would realize, and shake his head at himself for being silly. 

After a while he learned to ignore it when Glaucus sleepwalked. 

Glaucus’s room had been so small they could only go in one at a time. Thankfully there was a window, and Patroclus had liked to sit by it at night, listening to the sounds of the neighborhood. There was always something. Babies crying, dogs barking, drunkards mumbling about on the street. 

At first, the noises had made him feel more isolated than ever. But he learned to let them keep him company. 

When it grew colder he slept underneath Glaucus’s bed, where the floor was warm. They propped it up so he had more space - the worst part was the morning, when the hot water only came in minute intervals. He would stand shivering in the tub, waiting for the next round of heat. 

“I’m not looking!” Glaucus had exclaimed, coming into the bathroom with his eyes covered to get his shaving things. 

Eventually they fell into step with each other. It was almost comforting having someone there at all times, even if he had no privacy. 

When he took his bath, Glaucus would rattle the news to him from the other room. 

When he went to bed, he could sense the other man moving around, making the mattress above him creak. 

Then Glaucus’s face would appear under the bed, grinning at him. 

“I’m not sleepy yet, Patroclus.” 

“I am,” Patroclus had grumbled.

“Can’t we talk a little?”

“Glaucus,” Patroclus had groaned, pulling the covers up over his mouth. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“But I’ve never had a roommate before!” Glaucus had whined.   
“Do you like my apartment?” 

“I …”   
He had not missed the look of pride on Glaucus’s face. His fellow Trojan, who had been raised just the same as he had. 

Yet the other man had actually managed to fend for himself when he had nothing, had found a place of his own, humble though it was. It made him respect Glaucus a good deal more.   
“It’s a lovely apartment.” 

“I think so!” Glaucus had replied happily. 

In the morning, Patroclus would wake up to the smell of burnt tea. How Glaucus managed to burn it, he did not know. But they would sip from their cups, and the hot liquid warmed them up from the chill.

“Can you help me boil an egg?” Glaucus had asked. 

There were a few seconds of quiet where he didn’t know how to respond. 

“Boil an egg?” 

“Mine always turn out wrong,” Glaucus explained. 

“Well, it shouldn’t be too hard.” 

He’d seen the cooks do it before, hadn’t he? 

The next hour was spent trying to figure it out. 

“You put the eggs in the water.” 

“Mmhmm.”

“And then you light the stove.” 

“Alright.” 

“And now …” Glaucus stared at the stove uncertainly. “Well, I suppose you just leave it there ...” 

“I suppose an hour will do?” 

“That’s about right,” Glaucus shrugged. 

They waited. And when the hour had passed, they opened the pot, only to find that all the water was gone and the eggs were a mass of rubbery chalk. 

“Perhaps we should do three hours next time!” Glaucus suggested. 

“Yes, we could try that,” Patroclus agreed.   
\---

The memory made him smile a little, as he made his way down the stairs and saw one of the women of the house starting up breakfast. He and Glaucus had learned the ropes eventually. But for a while, it had been the blind leading the blind. And that summed up their friendship, he thought.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was a terribly hot night, that part of the year where summer seemed to pay a visit out of season. 

He was sweating underneath his clothes, the leaves rustling over his shoes as he trudged through them, Diomedes at his side. 

They had been walking for nearly an hour in relative silence. He could practically hear the man chewing on his words, and in a way he knew what that felt like. 

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” Diomedes remarked, after a moment. He had his hands in his pockets, chewing on a leaf, the picture of casual indifference. But his face was always the same - it could never quite lose its serious touch. 

“In time,” Patroclus replied, and offered a reassuring smile. 

Diomedes eyed him skeptically. Trust was a two-way street, Patroclus had learned. And as long as he gave the man his, he could count on receiving it in turn. That didn’t mean Diomedes was bound to keep his mouth shut, of course. 

“All this secrecy. The looks you and Glaucus give each other. It’s going to be something I don’t like, isn’t it?”

Patroclus kept on smiling. Sometimes, speaking like this made him feel free. Some semblance of control when he had his head screwed on right, when all he had to dwell on was the work they did for the people of Hellas. Nothing else existed. He could pretend it was all his life consisted of. Work, and work, and work. 

Perhaps miles away, in that big house in Olympia, Achilles felt the same. People needed ways to cope, after all. 

“I can’t imagine what it could be. Certainly not worse than the whole ambush idea,” Diomedes continued gruffly. 

It had taken some real convincing to get him on board with their next big plan. Just like houses to spend the night in, plans tended to blur together after a while. Patroclus often wondered if they were making a difference at all. 

But months passed. Fugitives were smuggled away to safety. Others lost the battle and disappeared through the cracks. People accused of spying were caught and executed. The rest of them lit candles for the dead and moved on. 

He had never imagined himself to be someone like that. Someone who could accept death so freely, could gamble the lives of others on the whims of success or failure. This was more than a game. But many times, it didn’t feel like it. 

And he couldn’t sleep at night. He couldn’t sleep, so he stayed up and listened to Glaucus’s breathing, and imagined they were far away in that cramped apartment learning how to live. 

“I want you to be there for the meeting,” Patroclus voiced. 

Diomedes gave him another look, a gesture of affirmation. 

When had they become close? he wondered. Probably the same way he had with other people. People had a way of making their dents in his life, without him realizing it. He didn’t know if it made him lucky or not. 

They were going down a path he didn’t recognize. The moon was but a speck in the sky, hidden behind whorls of clouds. He had once been wary of trekking through the unfamiliar forest - the home of dastardly creatures. 

And certainly, in a place like this, much could be conjured from a man’s wandering mind. But looking around him now, nothing but the light sway of the trees, the speckled moonlight on his and Diomedes’s faces … they were the only ones there. 

Mankind could create such stories, he thought. Witches and monsters and ghosts. All to hide behind the illusion that the only ones there were themselves.

“Where are we going?” he asked Diomedes. 

He slipped his hand over the other man’s arm, to keep pace with Diomedes’s longer stride. 

They had come to the end of the pathway, a row of houses still lit despite the lateness of the hour. 

Patroclus glances at Diomedes in surprise.   
“You didn’t tell me you were staying in Pedasus. Glaucus and I would have been happy to room with you.” 

Diomedes said nothing, merely led him over to the house at the very end. 

“What’s this about?” Patroclus questioned, when they got to the front door and he heard voices in easy conversation. Diomedes wasn’t in the habit of introducing him to other friends. 

“Go in,” Diomedes replied, and held the door open for him. 

It was a humble little house, but cozy on the inside. As soon as they came through the doorway there was a staircase right in front of them. 

On the top step sat a little boy, half-asleep and gazing right at them. 

Patroclus looked at him for a while, feeling the vaguest sense of familiarity. 

Then it came to him, and he could barely hide his disbelief. 

“Father!” the boy greeted, getting up and running down the stairs into Diomedes’s arms. 

“I told you to go to bed,” Diomedes said sternly, but he wasn’t really upset. 

He lifted the boy and held him, not meeting Patroclus’s eyes. 

It went unsaid. It had to. 

He hadn’t ever imagined he would be the kind of person Diomedes trusted enough to meet his son. It touched him on some level he hadn’t even known was there. 

“What do you have to say?” Diomedes demanded, and swung himself around so the boy could peek at Patroclus from over his shoulder. 

“Hello,” the boy mumbled, and quickly buried his face in his father’s shoulder again. 

“Hello, Adrastus,” Patroclus greeted. 

Adrastus gave him another peek, decided he was friendly enough, and managed a smile. 

As much as he looked like his mother, he certainly had Diomedes’s smile. Strange to see it on such a young face, under eyes that had not been laced with the cynicism of the years. 

He waited on the steps while Diomedes put Adrastus to bed. 

A few moments later, the steps creaked, and heavy footsteps fell into place over them. There was barely enough space on that tiny staircase for both him and Diomedes. 

“You know what I used to think of you?” Patroclus asked. 

“What?” 

“That you were a man never surprised by anything.” 

Diomedes scoffed.   
“You know me better now.” 

Patroclus raised his eyebrows at him.   
“I still think that.” 

Diomedes pursed his lips and shook his head.   
“You know I never entertained the idea of sending him off to Phrygia? Away from his home. From everyone he knows. Ridiculous. I was appalled when you brought it up. I was angry, for not thinking of it myself. Then I was touched, that you even thought of him at all. And now I am surprised - at myself, for believing in you this much.” 

Patroclus didn’t know what to say to that. 

It made his hands go unsteady, because this was something he had only just learned to live with. 

The thought, the idea - that there were people out there who knew him for what he was. Who depended on him. 

Glaucus, and Briseis, and Polyxena … and all the others whom he might have met in passing, or not met at all. The prisoners in Crisa who had thrown themselves at his feet begging for help. 

And now, Diomedes, who had spent the better part of his life on Achilles’s leash. Cutting his son free of those bonds. Perhaps - cutting himself free as well.

“Does this mean you’re with us?” Patroclus dared to ask. 

Diomedes had a foot in both worlds. One who dealt with death, collecting lives as easily as scribbling his signature. Walking among the living, where his heart belonged. But nothing was permanent. And perhaps he was finally making his choice. 

“Isn’t it funny what we’re willing to gamble, even after being shown that the stakes are against us? Is it some flaw the gods molded into us when they made us human?” Diomedes’s voice was calm, as it usually was. 

But Patroclus knew what he was really asking. 

“You’ll see him again,” he assured. 

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t.”

Diomedes looked at him for a long time.   
“I’m not like you, Patroclus. I don’t have the courage to hope. Not anymore.”

“Your actions say otherwise.” 

“Better that boy die on the road to Phrygia than in some empty house, a pawn for his father’s loyalty. I couldn’t do that to him anymore.” 

“This will be over someday. And you will see him again.” 

“Alright, Patroclus. Perhaps if you keep thinking it for the both of us, it will come true.”

He would be willing to give all his prayers, all his strength, if it meant it would. In a world like this one, he didn’t know what hope was worth. But it had certainly spurred men like Diomedes to make difficult decisions, even if the man would not admit it.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the past, the wall of noise would have disturbed him. But he could see the brighter side of it now. It was easy to get lost in. And that was what he found himself wishing for once in a while. 

Getting lost, and forgetting. 

While Glaucus’s secret meeting places in Olympia had been thoroughly torn apart, in the outskirts it was different. For the first time in a long time, they found themselves among friends and comrades. 

The pub was bustling with activity, clouded with the smells of ale from the barrel, firewood from the kitchen. The lights were dim but it did not take away from the air of camaraderie that could be found about the place - in every direction there were people greeting each other, playing cards, sharing a drink. 

Many wore tattered old uniforms, the insignia of the military torn off. Others were in civilian clothing. Guerrilla fighters, part of the larger resistance that had waged its own battle against the secret police and its army. 

Something Patroclus and Glaucus had started together. Now, he felt completely over his head. Yet somehow, it was as though he belonged here at the same time. 

Every few minutes, there would be someone knocking on the door. 

“What’s the secret password?” one of Glaucus’s lackeys would hiss through the peephole. 

Patroclus could not hide his smile hearing it. Glaucus’s enthusiasm tended to rub off on the people who worked under him. 

“Never underestimate the cayenne pepper,” the person would hiss back. 

Then the door would be opened, not without suspicious glares outside. 

If someone was _really_ watching them, Patroclus thought, this place would have been raided and cleared out weeks ago. It was a grim thought to have, but that was how they operated under most circumstances. 

Oh, the irony. Luck. Timing. And observation of the enemy. The tools to survive, it seemed.

All around him, he could hear whispers about their latest plan. It didn’t surprise him. This was the biggest one yet. 

If they succeeded, they would incapacitate the secret police long enough to put a pause in the interrogations and disappearances. It was an advantage they hadn’t had in a while. 

Everything they had worked for, leading up to moments such as this. There were times he thought it was worth it.   
\---

He started from his thoughts when he heard the tinkling of a piano. In a corner of the pub, there was a worn old thing, one person after another smashing their fingers over the keys. 

It pulled at something inside him, made the old sting come up like a fresh wound. 

He stared at the piano, fingers itching. It had been so long since he’d touched the ivory keys. How much he had forgotten, he couldn’t tell.

“You play?” someone asked. 

He quickly shook his head.   
“No, I - not for a long time anyway.” 

“Oh, come on! About time we got someone in here who can actually give us a tune!” 

“I don’t think I can.” 

How he wanted to. And didn’t want to, at the same time. The thought of it scared him. It scared him of what he would be made to feel, playing music again after so long learning to forget it. 

“Here, take my seat!” the man got up and started to pull him in that direction, but his feet held firm. 

“I _can’t_.” 

“Hey, I didn’t mean to - no need to look so pale, friend.”

“Another time, perhaps.” 

“I’ll hold you to that!” 

He turned in relief, brushing the sweat off his forehead. He didn’t know why he had started to sweat. It wasn’t such a big deal, was it?

“There you are!” Glaucus spun him around, his huge grin seeming to take up the room. Whatever there was to be said about the other man, Glaucus certainly had a way of getting in people’s faces when he wanted. 

“Look Glaucus, I just want to be left alo-”

“People are really excited you’re here!” Glaucus blurted out, interrupting him.   
“Oh sorry, you go ahead.” 

“What do you mean -”

“They’ll want to hear from you! I know we don’t have all night, but perhaps a few words? _Sorry_ ,” Glaucus continued.   
“I know I keep talking over you. But look, everyone’s here! All the vets! The guerrilla fighters! Some of my people who’ve been working with me since the beginning! We’re all geared up for the fight!” 

“I can see that,” Patroclus sighed. 

“No need to be nervous!” Glaucus reassured him. 

He led Patroclus over to one of the tables, and started banging on it to get everyone to quiet down. 

There was something eerie about watching an entire pub silenced, voices dying down, eyes flickering in his direction. 

“Just a few words,” Glaucus whispered. 

Patroclus forced himself to look people in the eye, to scan the room and make sure he didn’t miss a single face. 

Whatever he feared didn’t come to pass. Every single person looked back at him, and in their gazes there was no challenge. 

They were one and the same. And they would each risk their lives for a plan _he_ had made, that they were somehow confident in. 

He cleared his throat. 

“Thank you for coming here this evening.” He paused, tasting the words in his mouth.   
“Really. I thank you. You did not have to show your faces here, to be vocal in your support. I look around this room and finally realize how many people have given themselves to this cause. When in truth, I never imagined we would ever get here.” 

There were a few mumbles, a few nods, but people were listening to him. 

“As most of you might know, I am Paris of Troy. I am not a Hellene. I lived in House Pelides for most of my time here. There is no reason for you to believe in me, a foreigner. There is no reason for you to walk alongside me against everything we have known. And I still can’t believe you do.”

It was no great speech, he knew. He was not an eloquent man and never would be. But what he could do was speak from the heart. 

He caught someone’s eye in the corner, and saw it was Diomedes watching him with the rest. 

“I question what we do everyday. If any one of you were to stand up and leave this place, and forget about laying down your life against greater powers we cannot control, there would be no blame. No one here deserves to be held in contempt. But there is something a good friend of mine once told me - something I think, sums up what I love best about this country. When the hard times come, we have nothing left but to stick together. And I never learned that until I lived here.” 

He swallowed, thinking of Briseis. 

“I cannot tell you what is right and what is good. In a world that is only made up of what people will choose to see, this is what I choose. We are here as brothers and sisters, because we choose to see the world the same way. We can have faith that the world is good enough, that the future is worthy enough, for us to do the work that we do.” 

Patroclus waited for some sign of dissent, but the room seemed to have stilled. All those eyes on him. But they were the eyes of men and women who trusted him, and whom he trusted in turn. 

There was nowhere to look for loyalty but all around him. 

“A toast,” Glaucus proposed, lifting his glass and handing one to Patroclus. 

“To Hellas, our home.” 

“To Hellas, our home,” the others echoed in unison. 

The drink went down smooth, coating his tongue in its sweetness.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pedasus was known for a red light district to rival Olympia’s. 

In a quiet street all to itself, the buildings were clustered side by side, a close-knit collection of brothels and small theaters. 

The most famous one of all was hidden among the rest, nondescript and grey. 

They had identified it several weeks ago as one of the secret police’s main locations. Where soldiers went to enjoy nightly entertainment, and the pleasures that followed. They could enjoy a show in the theater, where the girls danced. Then they could retire to the rooms upstairs. A typical soldier’s evening in Pedasus. 

A typical soldier’s evening indeed, Patroclus thought, watching the lines of men coming and going outside, from underneath the curtain. 

Around him, he could smell powder and heavy perfume, hear the sounds of the girls getting ready. He hadn’t wanted to be in here, but it had the best view of the streets outside. 

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” he asked, backing away when some half-dressed women hurried past him in their haste to get ready. 

“I _know_ it’s not a good idea,” Diomedes grumbled.   
“Last place I would have ever thought to orchestrate an ambush. In some whorehouse in the middle of nowhere.” 

“I meant, is it a good idea for us to be here? We should go inside and wait.” 

“It’s too early,” Diomedes shrugged.   
“The party hasn’t started yet.” 

They made their way through the dressing rooms, dodging rails of costumes and shielding their eyes from the bright lights of the mirrors. 

Patroclus could hear women chattering, Glaucus’s voice sticking out amongst them. 

“Alright, ladies! We don’t need to go over the plan again, do we?” 

The sounds of giggling, a group of them gathered around one of the dressing tables. 

They spotted Patroclus and parted so he could reach Glaucus.

“I don’t know what to say to you all,” he remarked, exchanging looks with each of them - prostitutes that Glaucus had recruited to distract the soldiers in preparation for the ambush. They would be in direct line of the attack - and there was no guarantee that they wouldn’t get hurt.   
“There’s still time to back out if you want.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed one of the women.   
“We’re well prepared for what’s going to happen. Isn’t that right, Glaucus?” 

“I’ll be right there with you,” Glaucus confirmed - sure enough, he was getting ready to disguise himself as one of the prostitutes.   
“Now someone help me into this corset!” 

Patroclus exchanged a look with Diomedes, who seemed to have lost the power of speech. They had thought Glaucus was joking when he brought the idea up.

“You’re really going to do this?” Patroclus questioned. 

He hated the thought of his friend right in the middle of it all, but he could see that there was good rapport between Glaucus and the women. They would work as a team, mingling with the secret police and keeping them in the brothel’s entertainment lounge while the others prepared to attack. 

“You bet,” Glaucus replied, and shrugged into his dress as though it was nothing.   
Where was the bumbling young man Patroclus had gotten so familiar with? He hid a smile - perhaps he wasn’t the only one who had changed. 

“Alright, everyone in position! You girls take the east side. The rest go in from the front. I’ll be right behind you, I promise! Those soldiers won’t know what hit them!” 

Once the prostitutes had hurried away into the building, Glaucus turned to Patroclus and Diomedes with a grin. 

“What about this disguise, eh?” 

“... Very thoughtful, Glaucus,” Patroclus offered. 

“I think you have truly lost it,” Diomedes grumbled.

Glaucus huffed.   
“You’re just jealous I’m not the ugly bride anymore.”

“What?” Diomedes demanded - he hadn’t been there at the wedding in Laconia and likely had no idea what Glaucus was talking about. 

“Now I’m a liberated woman who doesn’t need a man to feel beautiful!” Glaucus exclaimed, puffing out his chest. 

“You’re going to break your ankles in those heels.” 

Glaucus rolled his eyes and sauntered away, shooting Diomedes a triumphant look when he didn’t trip. 

“Sometimes I wonder what goes on in that head of his,” Diomedes remarked.   
“Then I figure - I really don’t want to know.” 

“That’s what I’ve been trying to say all along,” Patroclus replied.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As the sky grew dark, the windows lit up and music could be heard from inside. 

Patroclus and Diomedes waited in the back alley with a line of men, holding their breaths in anticipation for the signal. 

Someone was playing the piano and singing, and Patroclus knew all the girls were at work entertaining the soldiers; handing them drinks laced with sedatives, even stealing their weapons to ensure the fight was as unequal as possible. 

This was the thing about fighting a trained military - they had to stoop to any level, using the dirtiest of tactics if they would even have a chance at victory. 

The singer changed key, and the song shifted into a more upbeat tune - that was their signal. 

“It’s time!” Patroclus whispered, and held open the door so the men could creep in. 

Overhead, something crashed and they heard a scream. 

“Shit, what was that?” Diomedes questioned, shoving each man in and urging them to hurry up. 

He stayed right behind Patroclus the whole time - covering his back. Patroclus could hear him drawing his twin blades, Helen and Clytemnestra. 

They crept past the corridors, using the music to guide their way - finally the song died off, and it was their cue to rush the entrance, barring the doors so that the secret police had nowhere to go. 

They had memorized the floor plan of Pedasus’ most famous brothel - but no one had actually been inside. Chaos was unavoidable - especially with professional soldiers trapped in a room, in varying states of awareness, some armed and others not. 

The piano player and the singer had been slain - Patroclus winced when he caught sight of them lying across the stage. 

They had practiced the charge again and again - but in an enclosed space like this, the fight could go either way. 

All around him, guerrilla fighters were attacking the soldiers. 

Tables were being overturned, glass breaking over the floor and leaking alcohol all over the carpet. 

It was surreal - he’d seen the military in action before, but now that they’d lost their advantage, they seemed no different from ordinary men. 

Some staggered over to the exits, others scrambled around for missing weapons - only to be cut down by their more eager opponents.

In that space, on that night - there was a kind of rage Patroclus had not seen unleashed for a long time. 

Over the months the guerrilla force had never been able to do any real damage - but now they had a chance, they were taking it. 

It was a swift, sure punishment of the soldiers who had taken their loved ones. 

He could practically taste the bloodlust in the air, feel the heightened emotions as the building was taken over and the members of the secret police either killed or injured. 

“Didn’t I tell you once that men are all the same?” Diomedes murmured in his ear.   
“Look around you - when there is nothing left but primal fears - this is what we become.” 

He shuddered, feeling a kind of sickened catharsis. 

He had feared that their plan would fail - but now, faced with the promise of success, their enemies bound and helpless beneath them - he wasn’t sure anymore.

He had always thought that the price of victory was to give one’s life - but perhaps, the real price was something much higher. 

Something much uglier, the kind of unseen force that turned brother against brother, countryman against countryman. 

“This is what Hellas is going to look like,” he whispered, catching Diomedes’s eye.   
“This is a glimpse into the future if we continue what we have been doing.”

“It is not such an easy decision, is it?” Diomedes responded. 

Around them, the room had erupted into cheers, the soldiers of the secret police defeated for the first time. 

He tried to revel in their triumph. He let the tide of elation wash over him, could feel it over his skin. 

In every direction were happy faces, relieved faces - men clapping each other on the back, tearing off military insignia, grabbing one of the women and kissing them. 

It was the picture of a battle won. 

Yet, he was as empty on the inside as he’d always been. 

He and Diomedes stood in the center of it all, watching what they had achieved … and he felt nothing. 

He wanted so desperately to go home, but he didn’t know what that meant anymore. He hadn’t realized he’d said it out loud until he felt Diomedes’s hand on his shoulder. 

“Come. We should probably check if Glaucus is alright.”   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been three days since the ambush, and they had to anticipate how the secret police were going to recuperate. 

“My sources say they’ve withdrawn for the moment,” Glaucus said.   
He lay back in his chair, one bandaged foot propped up on a stool. For someone who had nearly lost a toe in the skirmish, he sure looked satisfied.   
“One less thing to worry about. Now we can focus our efforts on the safehouses.” 

Patroclus was quiet, lost in thought as he had been ever since the night at the brothel. 

All this time, he’d thought there was no other choice than to take the offense against the army. 

Now he hated himself for being so blind. Hadn’t he learned anything at all from growing up in Troy? 

How far was he willing to go, doing something he believed had to be done? At the expense of Hellas entering the same type of war Troy had been plunged into. 

People had always had their choices taken away by irresponsible leaders who thought they knew best. He couldn’t allow this to happen. He had a duty to the Hellenes - to a country that had given him so much. 

But what was the answer? 

Achilles had committed atrocities against helpless individuals, but he had never gone so far as to bring open conflict to the masses. Whatever he’d done, he’d kept his country from going to war again. 

But the guerrilla force was no longer a secret. Sooner or later, people would pick sides. And there would be nothing but death on the road ahead. 

He had made a mistake. A terrible mistake, only revealed to him when he saw where his choices would lead. He could only hope it wasn’t too late.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The last line of carts was moving away in the distance, a shipment on the road to Phrygia. They were empty save for some supplies, grains that had been harvested in Pedasus, generously donated by the locals. 

Among the cargo sat a little boy, a whole new life awaiting him in a far away land. 

He leaned out of the cart and waved at them. His face grew smaller and smaller, the features too hard to make out. 

Diomedes was still as a statue, watching the horizon with an unbroken calm. 

He had put his son on the cart without a goodbye - it had seemed cold, at first. 

But Patroclus would have recognized that kind of indifference anywhere - only a mask, a shield some men used, to hide the sorrow underneath. 

Perhaps it was truly the last time Diomedes would see his boy - perhaps it wasn’t. The future was as unknown to them as it always was. 

But what was known was the present; that Adrastus was free to live his own life, and could not be used against his family any longer.   
\---

When the carts had disappeared down the road, Diomedes took a deep breath and turned to Patroclus. 

“Has he received the message?” 

He swallowed, thinking of the crisp white envelope that had arrived just that morning. 

The elegant script enfolded within, and the signature he had run the pads of his thumbs over again and again. 

“He has.” 

Diomedes gazed at him for a while. 

There was no need for him to say it - that Achilles had accepted his offer. They both knew the man would. Whether it was pride, or a need for public support, he didn’t know. 

But he had wracked his brain through sleepless nights trying to find an answer, a way to end the fighting and still accomplish what he had set out to do in the first place. And it had stuck out to him, that sometimes the hard way was the only way to go. 

Chryseis had always been right about these things. 

The summer heat was beginning to fade, the first chill of fall making its way to them. 

It was windier at night, the scent of the outdoors getting to his head. 

It reminded him so much of a time long ago - when Achilles had told him something he hadn’t known would be this important, years later.

He had spent so much time wondering about the man, and who he really was. But what use was it, when the truth had always been right there? 

Achilles had always had a complicated relationship with the old traditions, the values that still made their mark on the Hellas he tried so eagerly to modernize.   
And to seal his leadership, he’d had to embrace them. 

He had searched for a Paris. He had searched for a side of himself to reconcile with the old world, to become the kind of hero his people would believe in. He had wanted a Hellas that represented the good. The beautiful. The conqueror over all evil. 

And that was why Achilles could not resist. 

For Patroclus had found a way to defend the prisoners of Crisa. He had found a way to bring Briseis’s father home, and restore Pedasus to what it had been. And he had done it in the most public way imaginable. 

A challenge, a duel of old tales. 

To be fought for one man’s right to live.

No blood spilled, no lives sacrificed. Only a show of skill, a grapple for honor. 

And it would be done before the people, who would see for themselves and judge for themselves, whether Briseis’s father deserved to come home.   
\---

“You will never defeat him,” Diomedes pointed out, as they walked back to the house. 

Patroclus smiled. “You’re not wrong. But then again - I do have you for a teacher.” 

It made Diomedes snort, as lighthearted as they wanted to make it. 

But ahead of them, he could see the clearing where the duel would take place. He could already see the other man’s ghost, set free from his mind at last.   
And he wondered what he would feel, once he saw the man in flesh and blood again.


	31. Chapter 31

Sweat was dripping down the back of his neck; he could feel each drop running down past his shoulder blades.  
The gymnasium was empty at this time of night. They didn’t even bother to bring lamps. There were windows all around that filtered in the moonlight - something almost sacred about it. It had once been a temple, Briseis had said. 

She’d come here with him and pointed out the center, where the altar would have stood. 

“And now men come here to worship the sword,” she’d murmured, voice hushed as though she were still in the presence of the deity. 

He’d taken a good long look at her, seen the gathering of emotions swirling in her eyes. 

All the things he felt himself, but could not say. 

She’d finally been granted leave to return to her home, in anticipation for the duel that would decide her father’s fate. But none of it was a comfort. Only an added fear.

She’d seen him looking at her, and tried for a smile.  
“Did you ever imagine yourself in this position?” 

He’d scoffed.  
“You know the answer to that.” 

And he’d made for the exit, but was stopped by a hand on his arm. 

“I never know what to say to you these days. What do you say to someone who volunteered to fight for your father’s life?” 

He’d scrambled around for a response, only to find her hand and squeeze it.  
“The same things you would say to anyone else.” 

He didn’t think he could bear her gratitude. Because they both knew - the chances of her father actually coming home were as slim as a thread.

She did smile a little, then.  
“You remember the night at the ball? When you could barely move one foot in front of the other?” 

Of course he remembered. A different time, a different life. 

“It’s so funny. I keep thinking about how we argued all the way there. Father was already desperate to make a good impression and … oh, it doesn’t matter now.”  
She sighed.  
“He was so hard to get along with sometimes. I used to wish he would just leave me alone.”  
She bit her lip. “I suppose someone was listening when I wished that.” 

“It seems the gods always listen at the wrong time,” Patroclus mused.  
“Don’t they?”

It seemed they did. Even now, alone in the gymnasium practicing his footwork, there was a certain solemnity about the place, where people had once gathered to make offerings and communicate in prayer. 

Many times, he felt like he was being watched. And others, he felt completely alone. 

The time in the gymnasium was like a fog in his head. When he went back to catch some sleep, he would wake up in the morning barely remembering what had happened the night before. 

He wished it was that way all the time. Sweet, sweet memories, stolen away in his sleep so he could wake up a new person. 

Each day loomed before him, the knowledge of Achilles’s impending arrival, and each day he wished more than ever to run away.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Clinking mugs and shuffling plates - kitchen noises, familiar no matter where he was. 

He’d taken one bite of his toast and lost his appetite as he was chewing. The jam was too sweet, the crumbs in his mouth spongy and wet all at once. It was like this these days. 

Since he spent so much time training with Diomedes, it was as though his stomach curled up and refused to be bothered. 

“Are you going to eat that?” asked Glaucus.

He shook his head and scraped the contents of his plate onto Glaucus’s - then he paused. 

It was the exact sort of thing he’d always done with Achilles, a reflex his fingers seemed to remember faster than his brain. 

He hadn’t even allowed himself to think of Achilles for a long time. Now he stared at his empty plate, and at Glaucus’s pile of food. 

“Here, at least eat the strawberries,” Glaucus said, and put them back on his plate. 

It was the exact sort of thing Achilles would have done too. He found himself staring at Glaucus. 

And picturing Achilles’s smile, one of his favorites, where his eyes crinkled at the edges. He tried to imagine the rest of his face. Tried to imagine what it felt like with the other man’s arms around him. 

Was he forgetting? 

He was frozen in his seat, the realization cold and abrupt. 

He was forgetting. 

He didn’t know how long he sat there, eyes glued on Glaucus’s face, until the other man shook him.  
“You alright? Patroclus.” 

“Yes, fine,” he got out, averting his gaze from Glaucus’s concerned one. 

“You’ve gone white,” Glaucus insisted, frowning at him.  
“Perhaps you’d better take a nap.” 

He started to laugh, then, because now Glaucus sounded exactly like Chryseis.  
Was it just him, finding ways to project the people he’d lost on his friend? 

Some part of him refused to let go. It was not good for anyone. 

Glaucus was watching him, not amused in the slightest, which was rare.  
“Only three days now.” 

He sighed. “Only three days.”

“You know what you’re going to say to him?”

“There’s nothing to say,” Patroclus shrugged.  
“We fight, and one of us wins. And then Briseis’s father -” 

He stopped himself, because even the mention of it caused a crippling dread inside. He had thought it such a sound idea at the time. But now, even as he improved every day under Diomedes’s tutelage, the fear of failure was threatening to consume him. 

“Why did you challenge him?” Glaucus suddenly demanded. 

He looked upset - perhaps more so than Patroclus had ever seen him. 

“What?”

“You -” Glaucus clamped his mouth shut. 

It had gone unsaid ever since the news was announced. There was simply no _way_ he could win. And they both knew it. 

“What is it you want to say?”

“He could hurt you!” Glaucus blurted out.

Patroclus stared at him.  
“That’s the idea.”

“What’s wrong with you?!” 

“What’s wrong with _me_? Are you angry because I put a stop to the guerrilla fighting? Is that it? I know you did a lot of work for it. Believe me, I know.”

“I don’t give a fuck about the fighting! If you asked me to stop the entire intelligence effort I would and you know it!”

“Then what is this about?” he exhaled, and he was already tired. 

He simply didn’t have the strength to argue with anyone. What had gotten into Glaucus? 

“I just can’t believe he accepted the challenge. I can’t believe that you - you go around like this, and you’re obviously exhausted, and it’s killing you, and you don’t even care!” 

“Who are you to tell me what I care or don’t care about?!” 

_Gods_ , why was he letting Glaucus of all people get under his skin? 

“Oh, _now_ you’re angry. It’s good to see you’re still capable of emotion!” 

“You don’t know _anything_. You don’t know what you’re talking about -” 

He had to stop. He had to stop. He could feel all the pent up frustration unleashing itself, and he was taking it out on Glaucus, and it wasn’t fair. He clutched his chest and took a deep breath, unsure why his heart was pounding so fast, the heat all the way up to his cheeks.  
“I don’t mean that. I’m sorry.” 

Glaucus stood up and glared at him.  
“I don’t want you to apologize to me.”

“Then what do you want me to do?”

“Don’t fight him,” Glaucus replied, and his expression softened, his tone nearly pleading.  
“He would humiliate you. Please. Don’t do that to yourself.” 

The words made him look up, startled. 

He had never truly thought that … but it had been so long. If he was having trouble picturing Achilles in his head, if he couldn’t even remember what the other man’s touch felt like … who knew what it was like on Achilles’s end? Perhaps time had hardened the man’s spirit, perhaps time had truly taken him away. 

The Achilles he would meet in the circle would not be the Achilles who had loved him. It would be a ruthless Achilles, who had become a stranger to him in the time they had been apart. 

The gods did grant wishes. But all the wrong ones. 

“Perhaps you’re right,” he whispered, looking at the floor. 

“I don’t want to be right,” Glaucus said.  
He hesitated, then came over and put an arm around Patroclus.  
“I hate what this has done to you. Can’t we forget about it all? If you think it’s wrong, we could stop all this. We don’t have to spy anymore. We don’t have to fight. We could work on the safehouses and help those people get back on their feet.”

It made him close his eyes. It was Glaucus’s way of letting him know he was not alone. That no matter what happened, they _had_ helped people. That it was alright to turn away and move on. It had never been possible to save everyone, after all. Whatever guilt he felt for failing the people at Crisa … it was a guilt entirely constructed on his own notions of right and wrong. He would learn to live with it. 

“Let me write a letter to Polyxena,” Glaucus added, gently.

Polyxena. She would welcome them in Phrygia with open arms - and Diomedes would be able to see Adrastus again. His heart twisted at the thought. He had gotten so many people involved in this. 

He could feel his lips twitching, almost forming the word. 

There was a part of him, that Patroclus from Troy who had lived a sheltered life, who had never really gone away. His mother and father had left him, and with them all hope of safety and reassurance. Ever since then he had been chasing the feeling again. What it felt like to be protected, to let go of all worries, to find solace in the most troubling of times. 

He’d found it once. 

With Achilles, who was the protector of Hellas, who was head of House Pelides. Achilles, who would have always stayed right beside him and never let him fall. 

He had forced himself to hide that scared boy away, never to come up to the surface again. Helpless, hopeless Patroclus who was a stranger among royals and had to walk one step behind the prince at all times. The one who’d cried himself to sleep at night because he’d found his mother’s storybooks destroyed. 

He wasn’t that boy any more. But that boy, try as he might, would not leave him. And it was that boy that pulled the strings, pushed him towards the edge. He wanted comfort. He wanted someone to promise him that everything would be alright, even after all that had happened. 

He could feel Glaucus’s hand on his shoulder, waiting, waiting.

Then he let out a breath. He looked up at Glaucus.

His friend understood the second their gazes met. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. He really was. 

He wished someone would take the reins from him. Achilles would have. But Achilles wasn’t here, wasn’t his anymore. And he was Patroclus, and he had made his choices, and would carry them through. He would never stop. 

Glaucus nodded slowly. “I’m sorry too.” 

Then a look of firm resolution crossed his features, still boyish, even though they weren’t as young as they used to be.  
“If this is what you want, then it’s what we’ll do.”

“Why do you always jump in right after me?” Patroclus asked, because he had never asked it before. 

Glaucus thought for a while. Then his lip quirked up, that same sparkling amusement entering his expression once more.  
“Because … you’re my second best friend.” 

“Second?” Patroclus questioned, already feeling a laugh gathering in his chest.

“No need to worry! If Diomedes dies one day you’ll be promoted to first,” Glaucus explained, and snorted. 

Patroclus tried to picture Diomedes and Glaucus walking side by side, and burst into laughter.  
“I’ll tell Diomedes.”

“Don’t you dare!” Glaucus protested.  
He sat down in his chair, leaned back and exhaled hard.  
“Hestia, I hate when we argue. Now I need to eat something.” He stuffed some jam-covered toast into his mouth. 

As different as things could be, some parts of them just hadn’t changed. It made the burden lighten for a moment, and he found himself with an appetite again.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Red and gold flags waved on the horizon, the first sign of the arrivals from Olympia. Patroclus watched them from the balcony, the blood hot and cold within him - his fingers were gripping the railing so hard; he forced himself to take a few calming breaths. 

He could see Achilles’s messenger riding ahead of the others, here to notify House Pedasus that a welcome was at hand. 

It reminded him of all the times he’d waited for the Trojan messengers to bring him news of the war - yet here the war followed, this silent one that had been waged between the both of them. 

He waited a few minutes, basking in the solitude before someone came to get him. 

Sure enough, there came a voice, right when the riders had crossed the boundary line into Pedasus. 

“They’re here!” Briseis cried, rushed into his room and took his arm. He had been staying as a guest in her household ever since she’d returned from Olympia.  
“We need to get your things! Have you been to the armory today?”

He placed both hands on her shoulders in reassurance.  
“I’ll get them. We won’t be expected until midday.” 

He could see her fingers clasped tight together, the fingernails digging grooves in her own palms. He had never seen her so anxious before - this was the day that would seal Pedasus’s fate.

Oddly enough, he felt calmer now that he had someone else to put at ease. It was as though his own troubles could be forgotten, just for a little while. 

“Perhaps you should go for another fitting. We adjusted that armor in a rush, and what if-”

“Briseis.” He made her look at him.  
“I have everything I need.”

She stared back at him, her features finally smoothing out, the frown between her brows melting away.  
Slowly, she straightened and squared her shoulders.  
“You have everything you need.” 

He nodded. They were both good at putting up a brave front when they needed it. But they knew each other, knew the real fears and anxieties hidden beneath. And it was a comfort, to feel as though he was not alone in this.  
\----------------------------

He knew it was an honor to wear House Pedasus’s suit of armor. Each noble house had one, passed down from generation to generation, well-kept and maintained. It was dated back to the times when duels like this had been commonplace. Back then, challenges had been thrown left and right for the smallest slight to a person’s character. 

What he pursued now was not too different. He was challenging Achilles on the grounds of Lord Pedasus’s accusation as an enemy of this land. If he won, the accused man had a right to be considered for absolution. It was an outdated method of resolving conflict, but according to the legislation, it had never been outlawed. 

The armor had had to be resized to fit him, for Briseis’s ancestors were of a stocky nature. It took nearly an hour just to get it all on - and he had never felt more like a child playing pretend. 

Only this time, the metal slid smooth over him, perfectly in place. The shoes were not too large to fill - and the helmet sat snug over his head. 

He did not dare look at himself. Diomedes was fastening the straps in silence, and Glaucus had polished every surface until it shone. 

Finally, Diomedes stopped and stepped back to examine him. 

“What is it?” Patroclus asked.

Diomedes did nothing but grunt, steely eyes roaming over his form in their usual critical manner. 

“Are you afraid?” he eventually inquired. 

“What a question,” Patroclus scoffed, and raised his eyebrows at the other man. They both knew he was. 

“Don’t be.” 

“But -” 

“Don’t be.” 

Diomedes took out his twin blades to sharpen them, finding a seat nonchalantly. 

“Are you going to give me Helen and Clytemnestra for luck?” Patroclus tried to jest.

“You don’t need luck. You have worked hard for this. Whatever happens in the circle, happens.” 

Patroclus was quiet for a moment. 

Anybody would need luck to fight Achilles, he thought. But hadn’t he battled the odds before? Had it been luck that drove the efforts of his organization? Had it been luck that brought him here? Perhaps it was more than that. 

As though reading his thoughts, Diomedes continued to speak. 

“You and I both know you are not here because you are a skilled swordsman. It is unlikely that you will ever become one.”  
Diomedes looked Patroclus in the eye, then back at his task.  
“But I agreed to teach you for one reason - because you are someone who respects the act of learning more so than the result - and I knew you would treat the blade no differently.”

Patroclus had a feeling, just then. He didn’t know why he was surprised Diomedes saw right through him, and what this duel was really about. The man had one of the shrewdest minds he knew, and he had surely gone into this knowing what Patroclus’s idea had been all along. 

A gamble, it was. But not one that was unfounded. 

Diomedes stood up, his twin blades catching the light. He slid them back into his belt.  
“I used to wonder why he chose you. Now I know.”

Patroclus didn’t know what to say to that. 

There was a pause, and then Diomedes clapped a hand on his shoulder. 

“Patroclus. You need not be afraid.”

“I … thank you, Diomedes.” 

Diomedes nodded in understanding. 

Outside, he could hear the horses snorting and pawing at the ground. In just a few minutes, he would be facing Achilles at the circle. 

He clutched his sword in its scabbard - his weapon, his armor, all the right things. The tools of the trade. Yet they were not the tools he had really brought here, and now it was time to see if he had cast his lot right.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Further ahead of a copse of trees was the clearing, a widespread patch of grass just large enough to hold an encampment. On either side, tents had been set up to accommodate both parties. 

“That’s it,” Diomedes murmured next to him, indicating the empty, circular space in the middle where the fight would take place. 

Patroclus was a little unnerved by how many people were arriving to witness the event. It had been what he was counting on, but seeing it happen was another matter entirely. 

He thought perhaps the whole of Pedasus was here; on the far side of the clearing, a retinue of soldiers could be seen on horseback - a sure sign that Achilles was among them. 

The thought of it made his hands freeze up on the reins of his horse - how close the other man was, after nearly a year of not seeing him. 

He wouldn’t have to access his memories to picture that face anymore. It would be right here in front of him, and he would have to endure it. 

There was a short trumpet call to summon both parties to the edges of the circle. An initial greeting, before they proceeded into the real challenge. 

His horse moved before he had time to dwell on it - there he was on his side of the circle, the trees swaying behind him - the members of Pedasus’s household beside him. The crowd that had started to gather muttered amongst themselves - made up of both peasantry and nobility. In any other place, perhaps the crowd would favor one over the other. 

But Pedasus was different. It was far-removed from Olympia, and made up of a people who couldn’t quite decide what they thought of Achilles’s revolution. However much support Achilles had received from the common people all around, he was less likely to find it here. 

Just a few seconds later, the soldiers parted down the middle and Achilles himself emerged on his horse, the same one he had ridden in those days at Laconia. Patroclus forced himself to stare straight at him - caught in place like an equestrian statue. 

He could see Achilles’s eyes roving around the place, searching - until they landed right on his. 

He was so strange, then. Stranger than any other time Patroclus had known him. Clad in his armor, the insignia of Hellas on his breast to match the military - his red and gold flags waving behind him. 

He was powerless before this man, he thought. But he had to shake it off, because it simply wasn’t true. 

Achilles was looking at him the same way. Taking his measure, from all the way across the empty space, trying to decide what it was he was seeing. 

His expression was difficult to read - entirely too familiar in its graveness, entirely too far away. 

Patroclus felt, not for the first time, like someone had died. He’d been mourning that death for too long. 

The announcer rode up to the circle, carrying a large scroll.

“Today we witness a challenge set by Paris of Troy on behalf of Lord Pedasus! If our mighty leader so accepts.” 

“I accept,”Achilles replied, and hearing his voice again … Patroclus had to bite his lip to keep his composure. 

The spectators started to make noise again, but the announcer quieted them down. 

“So it is settled. A duel by sword, until first blood. The victor will decide upon Lord Pedasus’s return.” 

And then it was over, just like that. They rode back to their tents, and he could hear the crowd growing impatient as they prepared for the fight. 

He made sure his armor was properly in place, practiced his lunges one last time. 

“Here we go!” Glaucus exclaimed, appearing out of nowhere as usual. He was trying desperately to look cheerful, but his smile faltered a little. 

“I’ll see you when it’s over,” Patroclus replied, touching his arm in an effort to be consoling. 

“Patroclus -”

“It will go much faster than you think,” he cut in. 

Glaucus didn’t stop looking worried, but he nodded. 

Patroclus knew what Glaucus was thinking. Out there in the circle, anything could happen. Both sides had agreed to honor the terms of the duel, but there was no stopping Achilles from simply killing him and putting an end to all this. It would set an example for anyone who tried to challenge his authority. It would really show how ruthless and pragmatic Hellas’s leader could be, and end any morale among the people that Patroclus had been building. 

But he had been counting on something else. He had been counting on the fact that everything he had ever known about Achilles was true. The Old Hellas that Achilles despised but was forced to embrace. The path of glory he so urgently pursued, in order to become the kind of leader his people looked up to.

There was that trumpet call again. And it was time.  
\-------------------------------------------

They met in the center of the circle, weapons still in their scabbards. When the signal was given, they drew their swords and saluted - one last gesture of respect for the opponent before all was thrown to the wind. 

He had only seen Achilles fight a few times - friendly matches, with visiting lords - he knew those were not comparable to what he would be facing today. 

This was a man who had everything, a man who had never lost. Years ago, Patroclus would have been intimidated beyond all measure. Now, he forced himself to recall what Diomedes had taught him. 

He had promised himself that no matter what happened in the circle, he would face every blow head-on, and he would not fall. 

They were pacing the circle now, watching each other and waiting. 

He knew Achilles would be the first to strike - it was just how he was. 

Sure enough, Achilles lunged forward, his sword coming through in a precise slash - and Patroclus met it, blocking the motion the same time his breath came out where he had been holding it. 

There was a slow murmur from the spectators, and he had to shut them out. He had to pretend that they were alone, in this clearing in the middle of nowhere. 

That it was a different sort of dance, him and Achilles. Hadn’t he once wanted to experience everything with the other man? 

Another forward movement from Achilles, and he knew if he wasn’t careful, he would be driven to the edge of the circle, forced to take a defensive position until Achilles tired him out. The other man was too quick - he made his moves on instinct, leaving not much room for an opponent to react. 

There was no predicting what he would do - but Patroclus knew it anyway. Instead, he focused on his footwork, and refused to give way. He met each one of Achilles’s strikes, keeping them in the middle of the circle. 

“The biggest thing about fighting him,” Diomedes had said - “Is that it is all too easy to shy away and allow him to control the fight. He is very experienced, and very good. But even the best fighters can make mistakes - all it takes is one slip.” 

Right after Patroclus had parried, he saw an opening and thrust his sword at Achilles’s side. 

Achilles met him immediately, but at the last second he slid away and hit Achilles on the leg instead. It made no sound, and was easy to miss - but Achilles’s eyes locked on his, the faintest hint of surprise. 

From then on, there would be no more feints. He had used them up just to see how the other would react - and it made sense, that Achilles did not see him as a serious opponent up until then. 

Fighting in armor drained him to the extreme. He felt as though they had been there for hours, when it had only been minutes. The fight picked up, as he countered Achilles’s movements and made strikes of his own, resulting in a far more energetic exchange that had the crowd shouting in encouragement. 

Diomedes had not taught him any fancy movements, only a strong foundation. And he could see Achilles was the same. 

His sweat dripped all the way down his face, and his sword was growing heavier by the second. He had to use everything he had to keep Achilles from noticing his exhaustion. 

Another blow, and he deflected. 

He was looking for an opening in Achilles’s armor, eyeing the weak spots more likely to be cut by the blade. As soon as Achilles made his next move, he locked their swords together and drew in closer until they were nearly pressed up together, grappling for the upper hand. 

He pushed Achilles hard in the chest, wrenched his sword free and slashed him over the arm, nearly tearing through the protective material there. 

For a second, his heart skipped a beat. It had almost been a cut. 

But his blade had not touched the skin - even so, he was shocked that it had worked. 

He could hear part of the crowd catching on to it and shouting Paris’s name, excited. No one had really thought he would have a chance. The fight should already have been over - but now he and Achilles made one last attempt, blades coming to meet, and his pulse was racing, for once wondering how it would turn out after all. 

The best way to win a fight was to disarm one’s opponent, he had heard. And it was why he could not let Achilles disarm him at all. 

They danced around the circle, the metal ringing against each other, and his thoughts were quieted. 

Diomedes had warned him that at some point during the fight, he would not be able to think anymore. The mind would be discarded in favor of instinct, and this was the most important part. 

This was what came down to victory and defeat. 

He was sure Achilles was just as tired as he was - but the man hid it better. 

A small falter in his step, and he saw the opening - his gut twisted, driving him forwards before he could even think twice. 

And then Achilles had locked swords with him again, grabbing hold of his arm and twisting it, twisting it until it threatened to break -

Achilles was going to disarm him. 

And Patroclus would not let go of his sword. He wrenched his arm free, forcing Achilles to move backwards as his blade tore through the other’s - and then he wavered. 

A slow sting, moving up his arm. 

He lifted it and saw the fabric was wide open, having been parted. 

And on his flesh was a wound as thin as horsehair, running up like a river from his wrist to the inside of his elbow. 

He watched the blood seep out, slowly. 

He didn’t even know when Achilles had cut him, only that it had been somewhere in the desperation of keeping his sword. 

He had been paying attention to the wrong thing - and Achilles had counted on that. 

Funny, he thought, as he lifted his arm to show the others that first blood had been drawn. Even with the seasons between them, they seemed to take something from each other’s books. 

The crowd was going wild at the abrupt win. Achilles had earned their respect, enough that they forgot for a moment what his victory would mean.  
\---

Patroclus barely remembered who took his sword from him, and who led him back into the tent. 

It was a haze, but amid it all he felt the burden lifted. The important part wasn’t over yet, he thought, even as someone unstrapped his armor and wiped the sweat from his face. 

He could hear Glaucus’s and Diomedes’s voices, even see Briseis’s concerned face in the corner of the tent. 

Then they left him alone, and it was quiet. 

He stood up slowly, and lit the lamp someone had left behind. The sun had retreated behind the clouds outside - perhaps it would rain. 

For a few moments, there was nothing but him and the empty space, the heat of the lamplight flaring up in his face. 

Then the tent flap was thrown open, and he had barely lifted his head when he was grabbed and spun around. 

He jumped back, knowing the touch immediately - but Achilles’s hands held him fast, gripping his arm and turning it over. 

“How bad is it?” Achilles demanded, not seeming to see the wound at all, eyes flickering back and forth hastily.  
“How bad did I hurt you?” 

“Don’t.” 

He hadn’t anticipated being alone with him again. 

Just a few days ago, he’d had trouble completing his image of the other man, of seeing the edges of his face. 

Now it was all too real - Achilles was all too real. 

And that wound that had scabbed over in the past months was ripped open again. 

“Achilles, please.” 

His eyes were squeezed shut, body twisted away. Even as he held himself back he could feel the calluses on Achilles’s fingertips, the anxiousness in his touch - seeking assurance, any sort of assurance that he was all right. 

“How bad _is_ it?” An infuriating man, who could never be derailed.

“First blood. That’s all it is.”

“Sometimes first blood means death!” Achilles snarled, and however collected he’d been before, it slipped away. 

The pads of his fingers pressed so hard into Patroclus’s arm, they would surely make marks there.

No matter how he struggled, he could not wrest himself free of the other man’s grip. 

“Why are you doing this?” Patroclus asked, hating himself for how thick his voice sounded. 

Achilles did not reply, merely found his forehead and brushed the loose hair away before leaning his own against him. 

“Go back to your tent,” Patroclus whispered, but the fight had left him. 

He could feel the sweat cooling on his skin, and the warm patch where Achilles’s face rested against his. His arm was still bleeding, but it felt numb - Achilles’s hands cradling it were all that seemed to matter. 

“One year,” Achilles said, and reached up to brush his thumb over Patroclus’s cheekbone.  
“You were away from me that long.”

“We have to learn how to live without each other,” Patroclus replied, after catching his breath because his chest hurt so much, down to his ribs.  
“You know that.”

“I don’t know how to be angry at you anymore,” Achilles breathed out, holding Patroclus’s arm to his chest, another hand slipping around him and pulling him close. 

It took everything not to fall into him, to break apart in that place where his neck met his shoulder, to let the scent of him sink in. Just a taste of it was too much. 

“You don’t know how many words I had. Now I’ve forgotten them, and it doesn’t even matter.” 

He had expected Achilles to berate him for this. He had expected him to be furious, for this challenge that had been far more dangerous than it initially seemed.  
But he looked up at him now, letting the light filter over his features. 

And Achilles looked tired, that same bone-crushing exhaustion that weighed himself down everyday.  
He had always looked the same. He had always felt the same. And that sameness, in a way, was what made it so painful to be in the same room as him again. 

But he had missed the other man’s life in the time they had been apart. Who could tell what had gone on, behind closed doors of a house he was not a part of anymore? 

He lifted his uninjured arm and touched the side of Achilles’s eyelid, feeling himself shudder, thinking of the last time he had done this. 

There were crows’ feet at the edge. He had never noticed them before. 

In the years they had been together he had imagined what it would be like when they grew old. He had been content, thinking to do it at each other’s side.  
And now - he had missed a part of Achilles’s life, and the man before him might have been the same, but time had made its little changes when he wasn’t looking. 

He wondered how different he looked to Achilles, if he had aged too. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Achilles frowned, as though hearing his thoughts. He frowned and turned his face away a little, but Patroclus touched the lines again. 

It wasn’t just that one slight flaw that showed his years. It was everything. If heartbreak, loneliness, fear, and a loss of control could manifest themselves on a man’s spirit - so much that they showed with every blink of his eye and every curl of his lip - then they had with Achilles. 

He still looked the same. But the truth was, he wasn’t the same. Patroclus had once been afraid of how the other man’s pride would topple him faster than a statue that had crumbled in its foundation. But seeing this, he knew Achilles was just like the rest of them. Chipped away on the surface bit by bit, but still whole underneath. 

“I like them,” he heard himself say, and he did - because they were smile lines that had broken out on the skin from years of happiness - and he liked to think he had put some of them there. 

It made Achilles’s breath come out in the closest thing he had heard to a laugh. 

What a place the world was, he thought, where painful moments could be lightened just from a sentence - his face ached where he so wanted to smile, his throat ached where he could choke on tears at any given second. 

It was so _quiet_. It was like they had all the time in the world. 

But Achilles leaned back and took one long look at him, and he knew what it was the other man was asking. 

“A minute?” 

He nodded, and laid his head carefully on Achilles’s shoulder. All those long months, racing by and dragging slowly at the same time. 

When he closed his eyes, they didn’t exist anymore. All that existed was the meeting at the other side, an island where one could rest from the waves in the minute they had. 

He listened to Achilles’s breathing, felt the other man’s hands running over his sides. He could not forget again. 

“Did you?” Achilles asked.

“What?” he croaked.

“Learn to live without me?” 

He thought about it. He nodded.  
“I’m still learning. I don’t know if I’ll ever reach the end.” 

A silence, and he felt Achilles stroke his hair.  
“I know.”  
\---------------------------------------

The rain clouds had gone away, and it was a sunset that greeted them when they parted ways at last. 

Achilles’s face had smoothed out, the determined clench in his jaw returning. 

He gazed levelly at Patroclus, as though acknowledging something neither of them really knew to say. There was too little left for a proper goodbye. He didn’t think he would ever have enough to do it again. 

“I will go in the morning,” Achilles announced, letting him know that he intended to leave without them having a chance to speak again. He did not break his gaze.  
“If you have something to ask - ask it now.” He said it softly, without hesitation. 

Part of Patroclus had hoped he would. Part of him had wondered, if Achilles had gone into this fully aware of what his gamble was. And he could see that Achilles had not lost his touch. Whatever had happened, his mind remained as sharp as ever. 

He took a deep breath, making sure to meet Achilles’s gaze. 

“I ask you to absolve Briseis’s father.” 

He could see Achilles had expected it, from the way he took it in. 

“And why would I do that?” 

Because it was a chance. And they both knew it, but Achilles wanted to hear it said. Perhaps he needed to. He had spent all the years of his rule watching his hand slowly lose its grip over Hellas.

After nearly a year spent apart, Patroclus had finally realized what it was Achilles feared the most. Bit by bit, he had been losing control.  
He could not control the aristocracy. He could not control the public. And he most certainly could not control the aftermath of a much-favored courtship ending. 

It had never been about the duel. It had never been about winning or losing. 

Even with his victory, Achilles had enjoyed an elevated status for however long the crowd would enjoy it. But once it was over, things would fall back the way they had been. 

He would still be the common scum the aristocracy hated, who couldn’t even hold a promise with a foreign prince. He would still be the leader the peasantry both worshipped and feared - liberator and tyrant at the same time. But there was one thing he would never be - one thing he would never achieve. 

The path to glory was as far away as it had been when he had started. But if he took this chance - perhaps it would set him on the right step again. 

“Don’t you see?” Patroclus asked.  
“You have the power to refuse me. You have the power to take this all away.” 

There were a few seconds of quiet, but he could see it was the right thing to say. After all, were men not all the same? 

While he himself was tempted by the reassurance of comfort, of belonging - Achilles had desperately needed the consolation that he _was_ all that he believed himself to be. 

Perhaps deep down, he had recognized the horror at what he had done. And perhaps, like many others, he had feared it was simply too late. 

But this was a chance. And all of Patroclus’s prayers rested on it. 

“What happens if I do refuse you?” Achilles inquired, carefully. 

“Then I will fight for every one of them. And after every defeat, I will ask you the same question, again and again.” 

Achilles said nothing - the thoughts were dancing in his eyes again, one weighed over the other. 

Then he straightened up, and nodded, swiftly.  
“I will think it over. And tell you, tomorrow.” 

In spite of himself, Patroclus felt a small smile make its way to his face as he watched Achilles’s retreating figure. How similar it was to a night long past, when he had done the same sort of bargaining, pressed to the wall as he was. 

Back then, it had been his life at stake. Now it was someone else’s, but the sentiment remained.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the morning, they gathered at the circle to watch the departure of Achilles’s retinue. The crowd from the day before had shown up as well - an air of disquiet among them, muttering low as though they anticipated some disturbance. 

“Have I made a fool of myself before them?” Patroclus asked from the side of his mouth, astride his horse. 

His legs were already aching. Even with his arm sutured and bathed, the fight had really taken a toll on him. 

“You fought with grace and dignity,” Diomedes replied.  
“They saw it, and there is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“You’re right,” Patroclus said, trying to keep himself calm as he awaited the first glimpse of Achilles. 

He could even sense Diomedes’s anticipation, and it was a rare thing. 

Out of nowhere, the announcer made himself heard. 

“Gather round! Your leader wishes to address you!” 

The retinue of soldiers parted way, and Achilles rode forwards on his steed, looking every bit the heroic figure the crowd would have wanted to see. Appearances mattered, after all. 

“Good people of Pedasus - I thank you for a warm welcome, and for your hospitality. For more than a year, one of your own has borne the burden of treachery against our beloved land. I arrived here in acceptance of a challenge for honor - made on his behalf - and to my knowledge, that honor has been won.”

There were whispers of disbelief, the spectators scarcely knowing how to react at what Achilles was getting to. 

“For what is this land we have built together, if it does not reward bravery? You have asked - and I have listened.” 

His eyes flicked for a second in Patroclus’s direction. 

“With this, I grant my permission for Lord Pedasus’s safe return. Upon arrival to his home, he and his daughter will stand trial. And we will see what justice there is to be gained.” 

Achilles ended the speech abruptly, for there was too much noise going round - people were hugging each other, jumping up and down in relief - even the peasants who had served under Lord Pedasus. Perhaps they were divided by bloodline, by status - but in the face of a man’s life being spared, they were united in their rejoicing. 

Patroclus could see the play of emotions behind Achilles’s eyes, even as he turned away and made to ride for the boundary line, an unceremonious departure. 

As natural as Achilles could make it seem, as effortlessly as he addressed the people - it had taken a lot to grant Patroclus’s request. 

On the one hand, Achilles had gotten what he wanted. He had regained the people’s love, a benevolent liberator who could exercise mercy even when he had the advantage. On the other hand … Lord Pedasus was only one out of the many names he had cast into oblivion. And people were bound to remember. 

To save his rule, to earn back everything he had been losing - he would have to learn to let go. And whether or not Achilles was capable of doing that, remained to be seen. 

Even so, Patroclus felt the first calming of the seas, a time when the clouds withdrew just long enough for them to take a breath. One person, he had fought for. And there would be others. Perhaps this was the beginning of a conversation he had struggled desperately to find an opening for.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He never wanted to wear armor again. He never wanted to wield a sword again. It was alright to hope that he wouldn’t have to anymore, he thought, packing the suit of House Pedasus carefully in its trunk. 

“You did it,” came a soft voice, and he felt Diomedes’s hand on his back. 

“He’s angry with me,” Patroclus replied, faintly.  
“For making him do it. I could feel it.” 

“He made his decision. And you -” Diomedes said, clapping him on the cheek proudly.  
“You won the duel.” 

Patroclus couldn’t help but smile, then.  
\----------------------------------

That night, the celebrating was muted, the noises of the pub more intimate than raucous. People had their heads down, engaged in conversation. They were all thinking the same thing, feeling the same thing. 

Worrying over Lord Pedasus’s return, yet happy all the same. 

It was then that he made his way over to the piano, its ivory keys waiting for him.

“You’re back, I see!” said the man from before, who had insisted he play. 

“I did say I would be. And you said you would hold me to it.”

“So I did, so I did! Well, have a seat then!” 

Patroclus smiled at the man and slid onto the bench. It was a worn out old thing compared to Achilles’s beautiful grand piano in the house at Olympia. Yet his heart fluttered the same way, the second he rested his fingers on the keys. He was so out of practice.

Still, an hour later, he had fallen into step with it again, the notes playing out in his head and reaching all the way to his fingers so they could be sounded. A small group of music-lovers had gathered around him, and he played for them, and he played for himself. 

And he played for Achilles, whom he imagined riding out over the plains, eyes set on the future they had tentatively glimpsed.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He went to sleep easily for the first time in a long while. 

He could hear Glaucus’s soft snores, and it made him sleepy in turn. 

He’d once wondered if there was a place between the waking world and the land of dreams - and he lingered there, hour after hour, until the gates finally opened for him and he could find his peace at last. 

In faraway Laconia, there was a mighty horse called Asterion with a white mark on his forehead. 

And it was this he dreamed of, the wind in his hair, and he was laughing - the sound of the hooves pounding the earth below him rushing into his ears. 

He could hear a second set of hooves beside him. 

“Is there a song that can make you feel like this?” he yelled, at the one he knew was there at his side. 

Just a second more and he would be able to glimpse him from the corner of his eye. 

He waited for Achilles to answer. 

But below him, Asterion started to trip, and before he knew it, clouds of dust were all around him as they tumbled over and fell. 

“Asterion!” he cried. 

“Patroclus!” someone called. 

“Oh no, Asterion!” 

“Patroclus, wake up!”

He was a mess, scrambling away from the fallen horse, whipping his head around frantically for that second set of hooves and their rider who would not let anything happen to him. 

“Where are you?” 

“For Hestia’s sake, someone _wake him up_!” 

He was shaken hard, until the dream faded away and his eyes blinked open, the dark room filling his vision. Someone had lit a lamp and it was shining right in his face. 

“I’m up,” he gasped.  
“What is it?”

He saw Glaucus’s large eyes staring back at him, could sense Diomedes standing at the foot of his bed. 

“What?” 

“Patroclus,” Glaucus said, wringing his hands a little.  
He opened and closed his mouth like a fish.  
“Achilles -”

He sat up at once.  
“What happened?” 

Glaucus couldn’t seem to get it out, so Diomedes stepped forward. 

“They were attacked on their way back to Olympia.”

He sat so still, the room around him blurring a little. 

That second set of hooves, the rider. Gone from his sight. 

“Attacked …” he breathed out. 

“They are certain it was an assassination attempt, Patroclus.” Diomedes spoke calmly, firmly, always the voice of reason. 

Patroclus wanted to scream. 

“I have to see him,” he said. 

Diomedes and Glaucus looked at each other. 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. Now with how it is over there now,” Diomedes frowned. 

Patroclus got up and started searching for his clothes.  
“I’m going to see him.” 

“What can you do?!” Diomedes thundered.  
“We don’t know who is behind it! You’ll make things worse if you go there! For all we know, they’ll take you in for questioning!” 

Patroclus didn’t listen to him, looking under the bed and on the floor for his clothes. 

“Look at him, he won’t listen to reason,” Diomedes scoffed.

Glaucus, who had been kneeling silently, pale as a sheet, stood up carefully. 

“Here, let me help you,” he muttered, and picked up Patroclus’s clothes from behind the bed. He helped him into his shirt and jacket, buttoning it up with steady fingers even though he could not have looked more disturbed. 

“Not you too!” Diomedes barked. 

“Shut up!” Glaucus yelled at him. “Shut up, shut up!” 

Diomedes looked taken aback. 

“He needs our help right now, and you can either come with us or you can stay behind. Does it even matter if we’re taken in? It doesn’t to me,” Glaucus said. 

Diomedes glared at them for a moment. 

Then his shoulders slumped. 

“Fuck you both,” he gritted out. 

He stormed out of the room, but Patroclus heard him calling for a carriage only a minute later. 

Patroclus had thought he would suffocate in his panic, but now it seemed to pass. He and Glaucus walked out of the room in a daze, and he wasn’t sure which of them was leaning against the other. 

“It’s my fault,” he managed, even though he wasn’t sure if it was true. 

“Stop it,” Glaucus said. 

Patroclus had never been certain what Glaucus even thought of Achilles, yet here he was equally affected by the danger the other man was in.

It was freezing when they made their way to the carriage, and the sound of the horses made him squeeze his eyes shut and curl into himself. 

He could not help reliving that dream, calling and calling, reaching his arm out. 

There was another rider, and he had just been a hair’s breadth away from seeing him again. 

It had just been a second.


	32. Chapter 32

He felt he was racing against time, the glass of the window cool against his cheek. The trees blurred past on the road from Pedasus - and even with his eyelids drooping, his head threatening to slump against the seat in fatigue, he couldn’t help imagining he was in the theater. 

One of those operas he and Achilles had attended in the summer, those bright and beaming days - if he squinted his eyes hard enough, the scenery was nothing but the backdrop on a stage - the sounds of horses’ hooves clapping against the ground was nothing but stones being pounded together. The danger was simply make-believe. 

He thought of this, even as the moon shone out in a sliver of a crescent, and once again he imagined flying up to retrieve a magic spell. An antidote, that could cure a loved one. An end to all their troubles. 

He looked down at his hands, folded together on his lap, and pictured the spell cupped in the depth of his palms. It gave him purpose, as though his return to Olympia really would shield Achilles from harm. 

He looked up and met Diomedes’s eyes across the way. Then he looked down again, not wanting the other man to guess what he was thinking. Silly, childish fantasies. They had no place here. Just a second later, he felt a hand on his knee. 

It made him shiver, the goosebumps breaking out on his skin. Real. It was all real. 

He remembered how the outline of the city had looked like, that first day when he’d really been a stranger. That mingling of dread and hopefulness. How funny that it should come back to him now, a feeling from a lifetime ago.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Diomedes kicked them in the boots to wake them up when they had arrived at the city boundary. The place was teeming with soldiers - Patroclus’s skin crawled to see them - they were posted at every road going in and out of the city, ready to question travelers; there was no avoiding it. 

“Here we go,” Diomedes mumbled gruffly, sitting up straight and putting on his sternest expression as their carriage rolled along to be intercepted by a unit of soldiers. 

Patroclus was caught off guard by how empty the streets were. It was well into morning by now - Olympia was a bustling city, and now it looked like a ghost town. 

He nudged Glaucus and they both peered out the windows, scanning the streets for any sign of life apart from the military patrolling in every direction. 

Their carriage was stopped, and for a moment, they sat nervously while the soldiers glanced them over and talked among themselves. Patroclus noticed Diomedes had his hand curled up at his side, poised at the ready - as though he could not help himself from whipping out a knife and attacking everyone who stood in their way. 

It would not work - they were far outnumbered. 

It hadn’t really occurred to Patroclus how alarming it could be, having to stay still at the mercy of the soldiers - a sitting duck, with bows aimed in their direction. They watched as a higher-ranked soldier approached their carriage, motioning for Diomedes to open the door. 

“Oh Hestia,” Glaucus breathed, finding Patroclus’s arm and gripping it. 

“What is your business here?” barked the soldier, looking straight at Diomedes, then past him at Glaucus and Patroclus. He paused slightly when he saw Patroclus - brow furrowing in slight confusion - otherwise there was no change in expression. 

“We are accompanying the Prince of Troy to see Pelides,” Diomedes explained, voice even. He didn’t sound the slightest bit anxious - he even looked relaxed, on the surface. 

“Names?” the soldier demanded, looking at Patroclus once more. 

Patroclus knew he didn’t particularly look like a prince, at that moment - but the military had to know who he was, even if not all of them had seen him in person. 

“Diomedes son of Tydeus, Glaucus of Troy - and surely you know the prince,” Diomedes threw out, jerking his chin at Patroclus. 

The soldier ignored him, looking down and examining a sheaf of papers instead.   
“Are you aware that there is a warrant out for your arrest?”

“On what grounds?” Diomedes raged.   
“Let me guess - treason?” 

He leaned forward and snatched the papers from the soldier.   
“We could very well have stayed out of the city, laid low while this shitstorm blows over. Why do you think we’ve come here?”

“I assume to surrender,” the soldier shrugged. 

“Please,” Patroclus voiced, deciding that Diomedes’s hostility would get them nowhere. 

He shifted forwards and caught the soldier’s eye, scanning the badges on his chest to determine his rank.   
“Captain - it is urgent that we see Pelides. If we are to be arrested, we will not resist. But if there is a message that can be sent - surely we can work something out. We’re all on the same side here.” 

“Are we?” the captain snorted, looking Patroclus up and down.   
“Just the other day we hung some of your spies, you know.”

“Why, you -” Glaucus started angrily, but Patroclus clamped a hand over his mouth. 

“What happened to Pelides is an outrage. I can do nothing but offer a temporary truce. Please, captain. We would not be here otherwise.” 

“People believe you orchestrated the attack,” the captain huffed, after a moment, but he didn’t seem to agree himself.   
He eyed Patroclus carefully.   
“It would be a mistake to bring you in, considering the state the city is in at the moment.”   
He glanced at Diomedes and Glaucus.   
“These two will be arrested and taken to city police. And you - I’ll have a message sent to Pelides for his orders. It’s the best I can do.” 

“Thank you,” Patroclus breathed out, chest caving in from relief.   
“You have no idea what this means, captain.” 

“I don’t bargain with traitors,” the captain insisted.   
“If Pelides orders that you be executed on site, that is what will happen.”

“Oh gods,” Glaucus whispered to himself, sweat beading on his forehead. 

The captain turned and yelled orders at his subordinates, who came to escort Diomedes and Glaucus out of the carriage. Patroclus suddenly felt his skin go cold, seeing them handled roughly and marched away in the blink of an eye. 

“Don’t worry about us!” Diomedes yelled over his shoulder. Glaucus was too pale to look like he could muster a sentence, but he caught Patroclus’s eye and nodded as well. 

Patroclus was left waiting in the carriage, the door still wide open, soldiers passing down orders around him - feeling like a lost child, his friends gone away for good. 

It wasn’t for good, he told himself, clasping his hands together until the knuckles turned white. He was not alone. He was never alone. And if he had to wait here until sundown, so be it.   
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It _was_ sundown by the time the captain approached him again. He had been watching the sky turn purple, feeling extraordinarily calm even as the soldiers gave the carriage a wide berth and muttered to each other, casting him suspicious glances. 

He would surely be hated by the military, he thought. The foreigner prince who had abandoned their leader and run off to the countryside. The one who was responsible for the guerrilla attacks. Yet some of the soldiers lingered closer, looking at him more out of curiosity than any kind of hostility. 

He avoided their gazes, sitting as still as a statue.   
But as evening approached and the horses grew restless, some of the younger officers came closer to the carriage, lighting up pipes and huddling together to keep warm in the autumn chill. 

He fidgeted in his seat, eyeing the wide-open door, which he had not even moved to close. 

One of the officers eventually came forward and rapped on the door, making him jump. 

He looked up cautiously, meeting the soldier’s eyes. 

“Want some?” the soldier asked, offering his pipe. He looked amiable enough - but his comrades were behind him, whispering to each other and hanging around the carriage. 

Patroclus glanced around for their commanding officer - but the captain was nowhere to be found. 

He wet his lips, wondering if these soldiers were planning at some sort of revenge while their superior wasn’t looking.

“No, thank you,” he replied, trying to keep his voice steady. 

The officer shrugged and puffed at his pipe, passing it to his comrades. They didn’t speak further, but they lingered, and with every second they only seemed to come closer to the carriage. 

“Looks nice and warm in there,” the first officer remarked at last, grinning. 

Patroclus watched him warily. It wasn’t. It was starting to freeze, and he hadn’t wrapped up warmly enough. Perhaps they intended him to wait here all night. 

“How much longer is your shift?” he inquired finally, deciding it was no harm to ask. The soldiers were testing the waters while their commanding officer was absent, prodding at this foreign persona who called himself prince. 

“Oh, we’re here on the night watch,” the officer explained, looking surprised at being asked. 

“It’s hard work. Pelides must be grateful for your service,” Patroclus responded. 

The officer suddenly flushed. “It’s the job,” he muttered abashedly.   
He caught Patroclus’s eye again. “I met Pelides once at the medal ceremony,” he added proudly, as though needing this foreign prince to know he was not just any common soldier. 

“Bragging again, Peneleus? The prince doesn’t want to know you went to the medal ceremony!” one of the other officers hooted, making the group erupt into titters, while the first officer turned beet red and glared at them angrily. 

Patroclus breathed a sigh of relief. They were just curious, after all. And trying to show off in front of the royal their leader had courted not too long ago. 

“Officer Peneleus, then,” he observed, reaching out his hand.   
“It is a pleasure, even in these trialling times.” 

Officer Peneleus shook his hand immediately, and his laughing comrades quieted down. 

“And you?” Patroclus questioned, stepping out of the carriage, hand still out. 

The soldiers who had been making fun of Officer Peneleus hurried to form a line, and they each introduced themselves to Patroclus and shook his hand, some more reluctant than others. 

“Is it true you almost beat him at the duel?” one of them blurted out, only to be thumped on the head by his comrade. 

“Not at all,” Patroclus replied. “It wasn’t even close.” 

“Oh,” the soldier replied, sounding like he wasn’t sure to be disappointed or pleased. 

“We heard he nearly took off your arm!” Officer Peneleus exclaimed cheerfully, and everyone craned their necks to get a look at Patroclus’s arm. 

“Well, he would deserve it. Challenging Pelides like that. Fucking royals think they can do anything they want,” another one remarked, under his breath. 

The group seemed largely divided on whether they were interested in Patroclus or wanting to hate him. Yet, they seemed pleased at the attention he was giving them.

These were young country boys eager to prove themselves, after all, some barely out of their teens. Just a year ago they had probably only heard good things about Paris, Prince of Troy. And now … he had no doubt parts of the army were after his head. But the soldiers were friendly enough, even the sore ones. 

“Perhaps I did deserve it,” Patroclus acknowledged. “He is a far more impressive figure than I.”   
That shut the hostile soldier up, but they seemed satisfied that he had complimented Achilles. 

The recent events went unspoken, but it hung in the air between them. It was as though no one wanted to admit it had actually happened, even though the soldiers were all out here because of it. 

“Clonius here is from Pedasus,” Officer Peneleus offered, grabbing one of his comrades and shoving him forward. 

“Shut up,” Clonius hissed. 

“Are you?” Patroclus asked. “It is a most beautiful place.”

Clonius glared at the ground. Not everyone could be won over, after all. 

The group started to disband abruptly, and Patroclus looked up to see the captain marching in their direction. 

“What is this?” the captain demanded, even while the officers hurried to salute him.   
“As you were!” he barked.   
He turned his scowl at Patroclus.   
“You are to be escorted to House Pelides.” 

For a moment, Patroclus had almost thought he would be denied entry. 

“Thank you for the company,” he said, nodding at the young officers who had introduced themselves to him. He slid back into the carriage and the door was slammed shut behind him. 

The ease he had felt talking to the young men faded away as the carriage took off, and familiar streets came into view as they made their way to House Pelides. He had never planned on being here again. He had put Olympia far behind him. 

But it seemed - there was no escaping the city.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He had tried not to think of what it would feel like when he saw the house again. As they drew up to the familiar grounds, he felt a pounding in his heart, the same sort of panic he had felt when he learned what had happened - the same sort of panic when Asterion had fallen and there had been no one to aid him. 

The main house loomed into view - an image to be reconciled in his mind, yet the brick walls stood with a kind of forgotten air to them; as though it were an abandoned house, with no one living inside. The windows were like empty eyes staring out into the wilderness, no light left in them, despite the darkness of the hour. 

He opened the carriage door and stumbled out, unwilling to look at the house for too long, even though it looked back at him. His army escort did not move; he barely heard himself thanking the captain before his legs carried him up the front steps, and the door was sealed shut where it would have been open to welcome him before. 

He lifted a hand, the unease growing in his gut as he prepared to knock. Yet, before he could do so, the door swung open, and he was met with the most familiar face yet. 

“Hello,” he managed, shifting his feet and averting his eyes. He didn’t know why it was so hard to look her in the face.

“Oh, Paris,” she breathed out, as though sighing in relief - and pulled him in, glancing out the door at the soldiers and the carriage. 

It was so dark inside - the lamps had gone unlit, and it was quiet as a morgue. 

He and Chryseis looked at each other for a moment. 

He wished he had more words for her. All this time, and he wished he could have written her. He wished he had said a proper goodbye to her, on that last night. 

She was wide-eyed, staring at him - and there were dark circles under her eyes, although he didn’t know if it was just the shadows.

“Where is everyone?” he questioned, an attempt at normalcy.

“I sent them home,” she replied.   
“Especially with the soldiers out there. It gets … it can be too much.”

She was looking at him like she didn’t quite know him, and it stung. 

He swallowed, grappling around for the next sentence. 

“Where is he?”

Her expression wavered a little.   
“Upstairs. In his study. He hasn’t left since …”

He had expected as much. 

Chryseis hesitated.   
“Do you want something to eat? I don’t know if he’ll see anyone right now. Perhaps I should get a room set up -”

He shook his head. He hadn’t come to stay, and he didn’t know if he could handle it.   
“No, Chryseis -”

“But where are you going to sleep? Where have you been staying?” She palmed her forehead, more agitated than he had ever seen her.   
“Just the thought of you out there, all by yourself -”

“I wasn’t by myself,” he reassured her, touching her arm.   
“Promise.” 

She took one glance at him - and then they had their arms around each other - this time, she was not the one consoling him, as it had been time and time again. He held her tight against him, and leaned his cheek on her head. 

“It’s so awful,” she whispered, and he had never heard her sound so small, so scared. It frightened him to hear it.

“I know,” he said.

“We weren’t sure if he was dead,” Chryseis added.   
She paused a moment to dab at her eyes.   
“And now nobody knows what will happen. If they will try again.” 

He squeezed his eyes shut. That was the part he was afraid of the most. 

Chryseis took a deep breath, held him back at arms’ length.   
“Look at how thin you are,” she frowned. 

“It’s the training,” he replied, and gripped her around the waist, lifting her up with ease and making her laugh in surprise.   
“See?” 

He had never been able to put on much weight, but all the exercise with Diomedes had made him strong, even if his frame did not show it. 

“A swashbuckling, horse-riding knight in shining armor,” Chryseis observed, smiling at last.   
“I always knew you had it in you.” 

“Only when I’m being bad,” he grinned, and she swatted at his arm. 

“You riot!” 

She stepped back and smoothed down her dress, glancing at the stairs uncertainly. 

“Can I see him?” he dared to ask, after a moment of quiet. 

Chryseis looked even more unsure than she had before.   
“He’s …” she stopped herself.   
“I suppose you’d better. Come.” 

She took his arm and led him over to the stairs.   
“I’m guessing he hasn’t even left his chair. I can’t get him to move. Perhaps he’ll listen to you.” 

This made him draw back in worry, but Chryseis only ushered him up the stairs, watching warily as he made his way up automatically, the layout of the house memorized in his very bones.   
\------------------------------

He stopped with his feet on the threshold, toes right at the place where wood met carpet. The colors were already swirling in his vision, the smell hitting him - wood and paper and dust. Oil from the lamp. And how he knew where everything was, without even having to see it. 

He’d spent enough late nights making his way through the door, calling Achilles to bed. Finding him at his desk, hunched over his paperwork. He could even see it now, could see himself wandering over. 

And then a dark shape meandered over to him, and plastered the length of its body against his shins. It almost knocked him over.   
“Korax.”   
He smiled and reached down to scratch the soft ears, feeling something shift in his chest. Korax whined a little, but did not move away.   
“Doing alright, boy?” How warm he was under his hand. He’d missed so much while he was away. 

His feet moved on their own accord, tentatively reaching the desk. He wasn’t sure what it was he felt - some sort of ache, some sort of numbness - as though a wound that had been long tended to, bathed and dressed again and again until he could no longer feel it. 

While the desk was meticulously neat, the study was a mess. Books had been flung off the shelves, lying in piles across the carpet. He followed the trail, wondering what had happened here, and started when he saw Achilles sitting in the corner, where he hadn’t even noticed him. 

There was a makeshift bed dragged against the far wall, and it was on it that Achilles sat, limp as a doll that had been carelessly tossed onto the furniture. 

For a moment there he seemed invisible, a trick of the light - one hand wrapped around his glass, the shadows from outside the window playing across his face. For a man with such a commanding presence, a man who had always been larger than life - it was odd and eerie seeing him blending into the background that way.

Patroclus opened his mouth to say the other man’s name - and it wouldn’t quite come out. 

Then Achilles turned his head and caught sight of him, and the corner of his mouth quirked up a little. 

They had seen each other a few days ago - only a few days ago - and already it felt like ages. 

Watching that tiny expression creep up over Achilles’s features seemed to uncoil something within him - when all else failed, he could count on his feet to bring him where he needed to go. 

Before he knew it he was at Achilles’s side, crouching over him, hands hovering for a place to rest. 

He was so _near_. And he was searching him, searching for any sign of harm. 

“What happened?” he choked out. 

He didn’t know what he had expected. Achilles sprawled out on his bed, near death? A mortal wound and numbered days? 

Just the sight of him whole, and unmarred - and yet there was something different. There was something in Achilles’s face, that he did not know how to read, did not know how to approach. 

“How’s the arm?” Achilles asked, nonchalantly. 

Patroclus frowned. Then he looked down at his own arm, still bandaged from the cut. He had forgotten it had even happened. 

“What _happened_?” he pressed, ignoring Achilles’s question. 

Achilles let out a sigh.   
“It was always going to happen,” he replied, eventually.

“Always?” Patroclus repeated, aghast.   
“And who’s to say they won’t try again?”

“That’s what the soldiers are for,” Achilles shrugged.   
His voice sounded strange, and he wouldn’t quite look at Patroclus. His features were smooth and relaxed, the eyes clear and glassy. 

“How can you say that?” Patroclus questioned. 

“What do you want me to say?” And there it was again, that same tiredness that had been there at the duel. 

“That you’re not going to stop until you find whoever’s responsible, that -”   
That what? What was there to be done? 

That same upwards curl had not left Achilles’s mouth, almost stubborn, against the circumstances. 

“Sit with me,” he said, as though he hadn’t even heard Patroclus. Every syllable that came out was weaker than the last. 

Patroclus hesitated. Then he settled down, reached over and carefully brushed Achilles’s hair back from his head. He had never seen the other man in such disarray before. Rumpled clothes, from the day before. A sheen of stubble over his normally clean-shaven jaw. And those shadows under his eyes … they weren’t a trick of the light. 

“Achilles?” he tried.   
“Achilles, please.” 

But Achilles had closed his eyes and didn’t seem to be listening anymore. 

He waited a minute or two, then slowly took the empty glass out of Achilles’s other hand. The hand immediately wrapped around his own, gripping onto his fingers gently, a kind of desperation in them, even while the rest of Achilles’s body remained lax and unmoving. 

He looked down at their joined hands, too overwhelmed to pull away. 

“I’m here, alright?” he whispered, and could see Achilles’s eyes moving behind the closed lids in response. 

Outside, the soldiers patrolled. 

He had needed to see Achilles so badly. 

Now he was here, it became even clearer that he did not have the answers. He could not stop whoever out there from going after Achilles’s life. 

What had gone on in the year they had been apart? What if he had been too late? The duel, an attempt to reach out and mend the bridges that had collapsed. He had been so sure it was their way out. Now he didn’t know anything anymore. 

He curled up next to Achilles, wishing he would open his eyes, even though part of him wanted to drift off and shut himself away from the world around him as well. 

The two of them, in a pocket of air where nothing moved and all was silent.   
\---

It must have been midnight when the door creaked open and Chryseis poked her head in, light streaming through the gap and shining softly over his face. He blinked hard, realizing he had not slept a wink, and yet it was as though some spell had been broken. 

“No luck?” Chryseis guessed. 

Somewhere in the darkness, he had made up his mind. 

He straightened, pulling his hand away where Achilles still gripped it in a tight claw. 

“Can you help me?” he asked her, putting one arm around Achilles. His voice sounded strained, as though he had been screaming the night before, but he ignored it.

Chryseis took one look at them both and snapped into business.   
“I’ll get this arm, you get the other one.” 

They struggled to prop Achilles off the makeshift bed. He was half-awake, Patroclus could tell. They managed to get him to stand up, even though he groaned and kept his eyes squeezed shut. 

“He must have drunk himself into a stupor,” Chryseis whispered, then glanced at Achilles nervously as though he would open his eyes and berate her for discussing it. 

They dragged him towards the doorway, panting a little. 

“Can you walk?” Patroclus asked, nudging Achilles. 

In response, the man slumped forward. 

“I suppose that’s a no,” Patroclus sighed. How stupid of him, not to get Achilles up earlier when he had been more conscious. 

They dragged him further, one arm around each of them, with Korax trailing behind, whining.   
“It’s alright, boy,” Patroclus called back to him. 

“I don’t know if I would act any differently if I knew people were planning to murder me,” Chryseis got out, and her tone was so conversational it verged on the comical. How ridiculous they must have looked, struggling through the hallway with Achilles between them. 

Patroclus snorted a little, then thought he would break down in tears - then he bit his lip to keep it all in. 

“They had a funeral this morning,” Chryseis explained.   
“For the two soldiers who were killed protecting him in the attack.” 

He hadn’t known people had died.

“And the attackers? They got away?” 

Chryseis paused, as though unsure whether to answer. 

“No one is supposed to know this,” she replied, slowly.   
“Not even me.”

“What?” Patroclus questioned, starting to grow anxious again.

“The attackers were part of his retinue. They turned on him on the road back from Pedasus. It happened just outside Olympia.” 

“Fuck,” Patroclus breathed. That changed things. 

They reached the door of the master bedroom, and he stopped there, but Chryseis frantically shook her head.   
“He refuses to set foot in that room any longer.” 

“Then he’s really been sleeping in the study?” Patroclus demanded, incredulous. 

Part of him understood. He wasn’t too keen on seeing their room again, either, and he could see why Achilles would not have wanted to carry on sleeping there, an empty room in an empty house. 

“I tried to get him to take one of the guest rooms. But he’s been burying himself in his work ever since -” Chryseis trailed off.   
“He would get so angry if I tried to get him to rest, so I let him be.”   
She looked extremely guilty, saying so.

“It’s alright, Chryseis. You couldn’t have done anything.” 

Even so, he reached over and pushed the door to their room open. He was not going to drag Achilles all the way to one of the guestrooms. 

They stumbled through the doorway and pulled Achilles over to the bed, finally releasing him. 

They had to bend over to catch their breath. 

Patroclus chanced a look around. The room had been left exactly the way it was the night he’d gone away. 

“I’ll … put the kettle on,” Chryseis gasped, pink in the face from overexertion, and staggered out of the room. 

Now the two of them were left alone. 

“What am I going to do with you,” Patroclus muttered, one hand pushing Achilles up again as he slumped over.   
\---

It was a hassle, but he managed to get Achilles out of his days-old clothing and into his night things, having to hold him up so he could get the sleeves on and the buttons done. 

“You could help me, you know,” he complained, but Achilles was determined to stay unconscious, the line of his eyelids tight against his skin. 

He lifted Achilles’s legs one by one onto the bed so he could lie down. Then Chryseis came back with a pot of tea and they forced him to drink it.

Once the tea was in his mouth he sputtered, choking on it and coughing, and finally - finally - his eyes opened. 

“What -”

“Lie back and try to rest,” Chryseis said, her initial anxiety gone.   
“We’ve had enough excitement for one night.”

“I -” Achilles started, wiping his mouth and already starting to glare.   
“I told you I didn’t want to be in this room -”

“Are you arguing with me?” Chryseis demanded, hands on her hips. 

Achilles did not stop glaring, and she met his gaze evenly. 

“I didn’t think so. Now do as I say - you have a headache due in a few hours.” 

When Chryseis had left, Achilles’s gaze wandered and focused on Patroclus. 

“You’re really here,” he frowned, and it was a relief hearing his voice the way it usually was. He still sounded tired, but present. At least he was present. 

“I’m really here.”

All of a sudden, it was as though he had nothing to say. He had come out of fear - fear for the other man, fear that he really was too late. And nothing could take away that fear, could it? 

“Patroclus -”

“I left you alone,” he cut in, even though he hadn’t planned on saying it at all.   
“I left you alone and this is what happened.” 

Achilles’s frown only deepened, and he stared hard at his lap.   
“I don’t want you to be afraid for me.” 

“They’re supposed to protect you,” Patroclus responded, unable to keep the anger at bay as he thought of Achilles’s retinue, the army that had pledged its loyalty to him.   
The red insignia, a mark that meant different things to different people. 

Nowhere to turn for loyalty. Hadn’t Achilles mentioned it once? 

“They are not working alone,” Achilles pointed out, but he looked as though he couldn’t be bothered to discuss it. 

He glanced up and met Patroclus’s eyes.   
“We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” 

“Glaucus and Diomedes are in prison,” Patroclus said.   
“They came here to help you, without question - and they’re in prison.”

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” 

“You promise?” he pressed. 

Achilles nodded, eyelids already drooping.   
“I promise.”   
\---

He couldn’t have possibly slept, so he sat with Chryseis in the kitchen, almost like old times. Yet there were few words between them, only the worry for the coming days.


	33. Chapter 33

He must have slept through the sunlight, the way he opened his eyes and realized the sky was milder outside than he had thought. Chryseis had shaken him awake, and he rolled over in the little makeshift bed in Achilles’s study. 

The trip to Olympia had finally taken its toll on him, and after bickering with Chryseis that he did not need a guest room, he had promptly staggered into Achilles’s study and collapsed on the bed in there. 

He’d fallen asleep knowing the other man was only down the hallway - and perhaps it had consoled him on some deeper level, for sleep was relatively dreamless. His stomach gnawed at him, he realized he hadn’t had anything to eat with how things had been the night before. 

His eyes felt as though someone had tied small weights behind the lids, some slurry fatigue that he felt all the way in his spine, the back of his neck.   
He wasn’t young anymore, he thought - although this was the first time he had actually faced its physical effects. He could no longer travel for days in a stuffy carriage, go without food, and come out on the other end with the same sort of energy. 

Groaning, he slid himself off the bed, untangling his legs from the blankets. 

He had always liked the study, but now, seeing it in disorder gave him a slight discomfort. He had never known a time when Achilles would have allowed the room to be anything less than impeccable - it was, after all, his place of work. 

Perhaps it was a glimpse into Achilles’s own mind - and he stood, hands on his hips, surveying the mess. He shook his head and started picking up books and replacing them on the shelves. It was a wonder he still knew where everything went. He drew the curtains to let in the daylight that was left, if he hadn’t slept through the day. 

He was starting to feel a growing anxiousness, thoughts drifting to Glaucus and Diomedes. They had probably spent the night in a cell somewhere. Diomedes had asked him not to worry, but how could he not? 

Brushing off any hesitation, he walked over to the bedroom where Achilles slept and opened the door a crack, peering in to check on him. 

The bed was empty. 

He stood there for a moment, frozen in place, until he felt a hand on his shoulder and jumped. 

“He’s downstairs,” Chryseis explained.   
“Go on in and wash. I laid out some clothes for you.” 

“Is he - is he alright?” 

“Go on,” Chryseis merely replied, and her unconcerned demeanor was enough to put him at ease, at least for the moment. 

He hurried up and got ready, pulled on the clothes that had to be Achilles’s, for he hadn’t brought any with him. 

For a moment he paused, smelling Achilles’s scent on him, a mixture of wistfulness and relief meeting in the middle. 

Then Korax came to greet him, and he decided it was time to face whatever lay ahead - he had come here for a reason. It was up to him to see it through.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He had never seen the kitchen so empty at this time of day. He didn’t know if the entire household staff had been told to stay home, but the house was so quiet he could hear every small creak, every movement. 

Even Korax seemed louder than usual, tail thumping against the floor where he lay under the table. 

Patroclus slipped off one shoe and moved his foot against the soft, furry back, finding comfort in it. 

He did it more so when he heard Achilles’s familiar footsteps, coming through the corridor and into the room where they had broken fast for years. 

It was all too much, he thought, turning away right after they met gazes again. He glanced out the window to see if the bluejay was still there, but it was nowhere to be found. 

“Breakfast?” Chryseis asked, all the worries from the night before gone in favor of her usual optimism.   
“Lunch?” She had laid out a bit of both on the table. 

Achilles eyed Patroclus carefully, not sitting down. 

“Better eat after the night you just had,” Patroclus voiced, sliding a cup of tea towards him. 

Achilles grimaced, probably remembering the hot liquid being forced down his throat. 

He picked it up and sipped at it anyway. Already, he looked far better, his attire crisp and clean, his face freshly shaved, hair combed back. 

This was the Achilles Patroclus recognized, always up for the occasion no matter what. This was the Achilles who meant business.

“You look better.” 

“You look tired,” Achilles replied. He still did not sit down.

“Are you wanting me to go?” Patroclus guessed, glancing up at him, trying to ignore his stiff posture. 

“It doesn’t make a difference, does it?” Achilles huffed.   
“Apparently I can’t _make_ you do anything.” 

There was a tinge of anger in his voice, but he finally pulled out a chair and slid into it. 

“No. And I’m not going anywhere until we get to the bottom of this.” 

“Let me guess - you want Glaucus and Diomedes out of prison.” 

“If you would be so kind.” 

Achilles’s eyes flashed in annoyance for a moment, but he leaned his head forwards and pinched the bridge of his nose, not bothering to hide what must have been a raging headache.   
“I’ll have some toast now, Chryseis, if you don’t mind.”

Patroclus slid the jar of strawberry jam over to him without thinking twice - then winced, because some things were difficult to unlearn. It was already a plight to the senses being here in this room again; something he had tried hard to forget. 

The mundane, the everyday. The small moments he had loved so much, just being around the other man. But he had numbed himself to it enough that crunching toast and tea being stirred should not have been able to tug at his heartstrings. 

Yet again, he was wrong. He was always wrong about these things. 

He knew it couldn’t have been easy for Achilles, either, but the man was intent on ignoring the familiarity with which they fell into step again. 

“Even if I got them out - then what?” Achilles eventually allowed. There was a line between his brows that wasn’t going away. 

“They do what they can,” Patroclus replied.   
“You may not have seen it, but they each have their strengths. They could be very helpful to finding out who did this to you.” 

Achilles let out a short, humorless laugh. 

“Who did this. You think I don’t know who did this?”

“Can you name names?” 

The laugh faded into a glower. 

Several seconds ticked by, and what had been eating at Patroclus needed to be said. 

“I’m sorry,” he let out.   
“I had you come to Pedasus for the duel, and I really thought that … I thought it would make a difference.”

Achilles was silent, his frown only deepening. 

Slowly, his hand reached out and rested itself over Patroclus’s. He didn’t have to say anything for them both to know that he had understood what it would have represented. 

“We were close. I know we were,” Patroclus added.

It didn’t matter, did it? However the duel could have been used to sway public opinion, it was pointless now. It was over and done with, and he had gone about it too late. There was clearly someone out there intent on putting an end to Achilles’s rule. 

“What I don’t understand,” Achilles started, catching Patroclus’s eye.   
“Is why you have come here. Do you really think it erases the past year? It can’t be erased. It simply can’t.” 

“And what?” Patroclus questioned.   
“What do you expect me to do? Do you think I would stand by and watch Hellas thrown into chaos again? I’ve seen it happen to my own country. Now I have a chance to do something, I have to take it.” 

Achilles did not look convinced, but he was listening. 

“I was _always_ on your side, from the beginning. It was only when you would not listen that I took matters into my own hands. Don’t you see? I’ve always wanted you to succeed. Just -”   
And he sighed, thinking of all the names, all the faces. The people he had been fighting for in all this time.   
“Just not at the expense of your people. They don’t deserve that. But what they deserve even less, is the kind of war that comes when the country is without a leader.” 

“You think that doesn’t plague me at every waking moment?” Achilles demanded.   
“The Hellas I’ve built - every drop of blood, every ounce of sweat, to turn this country into what it is - undone.” 

It was enough to drive anyone insane, Patroclus thought. Achilles _had_ built something. He had built a flourishing country, a beautiful city; he had forced an entire nation to turn a blind eye to the suffering of their own people. But to him - to Achilles - all of that blood had been worth it. 

Up till the moment it had unraveled right before his eyes, the careful tapestry he had woven of what Hellas could be. 

Patroclus could only imagine how helplessly he floundered, under the guise of control - his own men, turning against him. The threat of having his power wrenched from his hands, the power he had fought so hard to hold on to. 

“It’s not too late,” Patroclus said.   
He had wished it, but perhaps saying it out loud would bring its urgency to light.   
“We have a chance now to make things right. If you would let me -”

“I will issue the order for Glaucus and Diomedes to be released,” Achilles interrupted abruptly. 

He straightened, sliding out from his chair. The frown never quite left his face. 

“On condition that you leave the city. I am going to start a search on the noble houses - and I don’t want you getting caught in the crossfire.” 

“But, Achilles -” 

“When this is over - _if_ this is over - we can talk. But this is what has to be done, understand?” 

He could see Achilles was trying his best to stay calm, his voice smooth and even - but that tightness was still in his expression. 

“Don’t ask me to go,” Patroclus pleaded.   
“It doesn’t have to be this way.” 

Achilles took one last look at him, but didn’t reply. 

“Wait!” 

Out the room he went, and Patroclus was left alone at the table, head leaning over to rest in his hands. 

The man was so _stubborn_. Even after all this time, he believed he had to do everything by himself. 

And hadn’t it been proven to him? Hadn’t it been proven that everyone he trusted would eventually leave? 

Patroclus did not know how to fix it. He only knew that he _couldn’t_ leave Olympia, not now - whether Achilles was willing to admit it or not, this was his hour of greatest need.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was unusual walking the streets in broad daylight without a single soul in sight. He knew the neighbors had to be there, behind windows, behind the walls. But it was one of the noisiest residential areas in the city, and now - not even a cat’s meow or the timid babbling of a child. 

There was something missing, he felt. He could only hope the city would go back to normal eventually. 

The latch over the door was rusted shut, and he had to yank his key hard in the lock to undo it. It got stuck anyway - and for several minutes he remained there, one foot on the door for leverage, trying to get it unlocked. 

It gave way at the last moment, swinging open so he all but fell into Glaucus’s apartment. 

He placed one hand on the wall to keep his balance, surveying the room. 

It was dim, but nothing had changed. It was almost a relief knowing he had somewhere to come back to, even if it wasn’t quite a home. 

But it was close enough. And all he had these days was _close enough_.

When Glaucus and Diomedes were released, the three of them would be cramped in here like a jar of anchovies. He was almost certain they would try to convince him to leave Olympia again. 

But if Achilles could be stubborn, so could he. Even if he had to work out of a tiny living space, under the eyes of the military patrolling the walkways outside. 

He opened the bedroom window to air out the apartment, and finally, some sounds could be heard. A mother ushering her children back indoors, groceries being hauled up the stairs. Someone rooting through the garbage for leftover food. 

How hard he had to look just to find some semblance of the way things were supposed to be. Then again, things had never been the way they were supposed to be, not for a long time.   
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I thought you wouldn’t come back,” Chryseis said, when he rapped on the kitchen door from the back alley that night. 

Perhaps this was what Diomedes had felt like in those days, coming in like a stranger, not a real part of the household, not even a guest. 

“I don’t give up so easily,” he replied, finding her shoulder and squeezing it. 

He thought she might have been waiting up for him, concerned over where he could have possibly gone. 

He knew Achilles was aware he came by. 

They didn’t see each other, not in the following nights. Walls and doors between them, yet he could almost sense the man moving around in the floor above, could picture him wandering the halls as restless as his spirit was on the inside. 

It reminded him of those days listening to the tinkling of the piano from outside the room, his back to the wall, his eyes closed to absorb every last tremor of sound. 

Back then, he had been in search of something. Back then, he hadn’t known what to look for.

Now he knew it all. Now he knew too much, perhaps. 

And still, he searched. Still, he waited. 

Even when the vast space of the ballroom had been deserted for months on end, the grand piano collecting dust in the middle.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Something had woken him up, like a clock wound up to strike at a particular hour. He thought he heard something, but it could be difficult to tell, the way he slipped in and out of dreams. Sometimes the sounds and images stayed in his head, and it took a moment to realize they had been nothing but the effects of a tired mind. 

He almost imagined he saw Glaucus’s sleepwalking figure in the corridor, but it was impossible. 

Rats, he thought. Perhaps they had rats. 

He frowned and slipped out of Glaucus’s bed, unwilling to rest his bare feet on the floor. They had only gotten rats once in the time he and Glaucus had lived together. 

He shuddered a little, even though he knew they were harmless. 

Glaucus had tried so hard to keep one as a pet, and the memory made him laugh despite the cold seeping through his nightshirt. 

With chilled hands, he lit a lamp, and spent the next few minutes looking around for those tiny creatures. Imagining things again, he sighed, when he found none. Perhaps he did need to get out of this apartment. 

Without Glaucus around, it really was nothing but a barren, destitute place, and the peeling walls and cracked floor did not ease him any further.

He didn’t know how risky it was to venture out at this time of night, but the soldiers had stopped their patrolling some hours ago. There was now a curfew, but if he could stick to the narrow alleys he would be able to get around unseen. 

It wasn’t really the city streets they were concerned about, after all. It was House Pelides, well-guarded while Achilles was inside, and he had been given clearance to enter after all.  
\------------------------------------------

He came through the back alley, as he always did. 

“Chryseis?” 

She was nowhere to be found, not at this time of night. 

He strode through the kitchen, through the corridors. 

Growing up in the palace, he was used to large spaces and the echoes they made as people passed through. He had thought House Pelides relatively cozy compared to it. 

But now, without a fire going, without another body nearby - it was just as lonely as the palace could get. 

House or palace, it didn’t really matter. It was the people that made up the place. He didn’t know how Achilles could stand being here all by himself. 

He made his way up the stairs, his fingers tingling as they dragged over the railing - trying not to look in dark corners and crevices. He had never been wary of the house before. Not even back then, when Achilles had been away on his trips. 

There had always been someone to look to. Now there was no one, and the absence of people rang louder than if they had been around - he didn’t think he could breathe properly, the way the air was so thick from how wrong it all seemed.   
\---

He nearly cried out in gratitude when he saw light coming out from under a doorway. 

It was the archive, where he had once sacrificed precious sleep in pursuit of something important. 

It seemed so far away now, he mused. 

Those documents he had pored over - barely a dent on the surface. It was funny how much one could learn, only to go back to the beginning. 

Inside the archive the lone lamp reflected over every surface - finally some warmth, after the cold greyness he had traversed to get to it. 

He stopped when he saw Achilles’s figure standing there, right at the end. 

Achilles, who hadn’t even bothered to change out of his day clothes, who stood watching the far wall in that lingering, senseless way Glaucus had been when he sleepwalked. 

Patroclus was rooted to the ground for a moment, simply watching him. 

Why was it so easy sometimes, and so difficult at others? 

He had started to feel normal again. And now, he was reminded it was anything but, not with the way the uncovered ground between them was felt as starkly as the night he had gone away. 

“I thought I told you to leave.” 

Achilles’s voice came out of nowhere, making him start. 

He hesitated, stepping further into the archive, all the way until he was nearly at the man’s side. 

Achilles still wasn’t looking at him, but his stance was relaxed, arms hanging at his sides. 

Patroclus studied his profile, remembering the day at the stables when he had done just the same. 

His mind came up with a million excuses, a million explanations - only to die away again. He was tired of giving his reasons. He was tired of fighting. 

Achilles seemed to sense it, or at least feel the same. His gaze darted to the side, finding Patroclus’s at last. 

The previous unsettlement was gone. Oddly, in that moment, he seemed at peace. 

“Come here,” he said, lifting an arm to beckon Patroclus towards him. 

Patroclus went. 

He stopped when their sides were lined together, Achilles’s arm coming to rest casually around him. 

The two of them, facing the wall. 

He didn’t even register what it was he was looking at - he noticed the drapes there were pulled back, making the room appear more spacious than it usually was. 

And then his eyes came to rest on it, and he almost drew away. 

He had never really looked at his painting before. He had never wanted to. 

He allowed himself to examine it, almost begrudgingly. He only made it through half a minute before needing to turn away. Looking in a mirror was one thing, this - this was where it had all begun. 

And the way Achilles was staring at it, as though not really looking but absorbing - all at once he knew he could never feel normal again. Not like this. 

“Achilles.” 

“I come here sometimes, when the house is empty.”

He wanted them to go away. He wanted them to be anywhere but here, some other room, some other house, where they did not have to stand and look at some past self of his that had only existed in one time and place. 

So many things he had learned about Achilles. So many things he had accepted, so many things that had horrified and scared him. He had lost count of the number of times he had wondered if he was losing his mind, trying to complete the man’s picture, much like the painting on the wall. 

“When you went away -” Achilles stopped, breath coming out in the softest release.   
“I tried to convince myself that it was the idea of you I was in love with.” 

He had never imagined how much it would hurt to hear that. He covered his face, where he had been dry-eyed for long enough. 

Achilles did not remove his arm. 

“I came here, and I looked at you, and I thought - that had to be it.” 

“Please,” he said, feeling his voice break. He did not want to go through this again. He did not want to hear it. 

“Was it?” Achilles asked.   
“Was it what that was?” 

The idea of him, represented in the portrait that had brought him here. A Paris who did not exist. 

But _he_ existed. Patroclus did. 

And that one thought gave him strength, even if it was only slight. 

He cleared his throat, reached up and brought Achilles’s face towards him. 

“Want to know a secret?” 

Achilles frowned. He wished he could smooth them all out for good. 

“A question I used to ask myself; if I am Paris, then what happens to Patroclus?” 

He had never told anyone. He had lived with it, that secret fear of losing himself within what he had to be. 

“What?” Achilles questioned, almost like a child. 

“Now I know,” he replied.   
“You see - Patroclus - made friends, and learned to ride a horse. He studied the piano, and was never very good at it. He could dance, though. He could dance.” 

Achilles’s frown faded slightly.   
“And then?” 

“And he went on a journey, looking for lost people with his list of names. He didn’t find any of them. He failed at almost everything he did.”

Achilles closed his eyes.   
“That’s not true.” 

Patroclus sighed, wetting his lips to say the words he had so needed to hear for himself, just once. 

“I came all this way to be Paris - the one who had a future here. He was the armor I wore when I was afraid - when I led those fights against you, when I held that sword for the first time - when my friends died around me. And then I took it off, and it was only me.” 

He lapsed into silence, it was becoming so difficult to speak. 

“It was only me. You think I never wondered what it was about _you_ I loved? If it was only the idea of you, some picture my mind wanted to create when I _knew_ what was going on.”

Achilles’s face contorted a little, and he lowered his head.

“It was me,” he finally said, so softly it could scarcely be heard.   
“I did this to us.”

“I felt lost, and alone, and helpless. When the fighting grew worse I hated myself for thinking of you. I was sure I would fail again. But -”

And he swallowed hard. 

“I loved you still. Even after everything. What kind of person does that?” 

“Patroclus,” Achilles stammered out, and pulled him hard against him, hot tears running down his cheeks. 

He had done all those things in some hope he could right whatever wrongs had been done to those people. 

But at the end of the day - he was here - pleading with some absent god that nothing would happen to Achilles. 

“Look at me,” he said, cupping Achilles’s face, catching the tears with his fingers.   
“I only want you to listen. I only want you to know you are not alone. Can you do that for me?” 

Achilles nodded, closing his eyes again and bringing their foreheads together.   
“Alright,” he said.   
“Alright.” 

The lamp was flickering out, covering the far wall in a veil of darkness. The painting faded out of view, its colors blending into the shadow until it could no longer be seen. 

Paris, and the ideal. An impossible reach, a vision of the Hellas that made no allowances for mistakes and foolish pride. 

But when that cover had been shed, there was only the two of them. Just as it had always been. The two of them and an honest effort to take each day as it came. 

He thought, perhaps, it was the only way they could survive it together.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

No matter what happened in his sleep, he always woke up again. Nightmares and fantasies. Sometimes sleep was a balm, but on days like this he could rise and be glad that the world was still there waiting for him. 

There they were in the study again, and he uncurled himself from Achilles’s limbs, heavy with fatigue. They had sat there for hours, barely fitting on the makeshift bed, its edges digging into the backs of their legs. 

It had been uncomfortable. He’d found himself with a headache and stuffy nose, the well of emotions emptied out again when he’d thought there was nothing there. And then he’d lain his head on Achilles’s shoulder, and allowed himself to take comfort in those arms again, just for a little while. 

And he’d fallen asleep. 

He looked back at Achilles, not wanting to leave him. The man was slumped against the wall, head tilted back, once again in disarray. He let himself look. 

No more averted glances, no more clamped lips in order to keep himself in check. He was tired of it. He had chosen to be here, and in a few hours they would have a task to do together. 

He reached over and smoothed out the line that had appeared between Achilles’s brows, even in his sleep. And he felt his heart lighten, just the tiniest bit. 

Achilles’s eyes snapped open abruptly, irises roaming in a daze until they landed on him. He hadn’t expected him to awaken. 

“Rest,” he said. He knew Achilles wanted to object, but he leaned over and pressed a kiss to his cheek.   
“Promise me?”

Achilles still looked unwilling, but after a moment the exhaustion must have taken over, and he could only nod and move so he was lying down properly. 

His legs hung right over the end, and Patroclus felt himself smile seeing it.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He hadn’t planned on leaving House Pelides again, but this was an important day. Glaucus and Diomedes were finally being released from prison, and he had to make sure the apartment was liveable if they were to stay. 

There were less soldiers in the streets this time around. He could even see a few civilians out and about, the grocery stores and bakeries open in the morning, some activity here and there. 

It was slowly becoming a recognizable Olympia. Perhaps they were a far cry from normal, but who needed it anyway?  
\----------------------------------------

He was all the way up the stairs when he realized he had forgotten Glaucus’s key. 

“Shit,” he muttered, nearly turning round, dreading the thought of walking all the way back to House Pelides and all the way here again. 

Then he noticed the undone latch, and for the first time was thankful that he had forgotten to lock up anyway. 

He opened the door, already making a list in his mind of things that needed to be done. He had to contact the landlord at some point to make sure rent had been paid. There was very little water - and food. There was no food at all. 

He realized he hadn’t even checked if there was charcoal for the stove. What a terrible house-sitter he was. 

He looked around the apartment to see if there was space for a second bed for Diomedes, or the other man would have to sleep under the bed.

Thinking of this, he slid into the bedroom - 

And all the breath left him at once. 

“What -”

“You’re finally here,” King Priam greeted, looking pleased. He got up from where he had been seated on the bed. 

“Your majesty?!” 

“It has been too long,” Priam added, and spread his arms. 

Patroclus had no idea what to do with himself, still laced with shock, until he realized the king was waiting for an embrace. 

“But … how did you - how did you …” He reluctantly allowed Priam to wrap his arms around him, feeling awkward as the king’s beard tickled his cheek. 

How had Priam even known he was here? 

“Why didn’t you look for me at the - wait, when did you leave Troy? Is it safe to travel? Your majesty, has something happened?” 

Priam chuckled, patting his back, and Patroclus realized he had never seen the king in such good spirits before. 

“So many questions. And I can assure you, they will all be answered in time.” 

Patroclus gripped Priam’s arm.   
“Please. If something has happened, I _must_ know.” 

He could feel his head swimming with all the possible information. 

“All in time,” Priam smiled, genially.   
“For now, I only have the most awaited of news. To think of you, all these years, unable to come home because of that wretched war. Well, the gods have answered our prayers, my boy.”

“The war?” Patroclus questioned. He could scarcely believe it.   
“The war has ended?” 

How did he not know about this? He knew Polyxena’s war relief was still up and running. If something had happened, she would have informed him.

Priam pursed his lips, tilting his head to think.   
“It is not over. But after seven years, we see an ending in the making. And we could not have done it without you.”

Patroclus frowned.   
“What do you mean?”

“I have, of course, come here to take you home. I felt it was only right, what with everything you have accomplished through sheer will alone.” 

“Everything I have …” 

He had a nagging feeling at the back of his head, going all the way down to his stomach. 

“Your majesty. I have done nothing.”

“Nothing?” Priam raised his eyebrows. 

“The war -” 

He had started trembling, and he didn’t know why. 

“You say it is nothing, when you have fulfilled your duty far more than I could have imagined. What you have done is worthy of the throne.” 

“No, your majesty!” Patroclus protested, that hot, ill sensation creeping its way up his neck.   
“I - I -” 

He had failed, hadn’t he? He had been tasked with one thing - to secure the alliance. And he had failed, because he had let that courtship end. 

“Arranging a network of spies against his secret police. Starting an army, to undermine his power. Gathering supporters to your cause. All things a true protector of Troy would know to do. Your father would have been proud.” 

“I only did those things to stop him from harming those people!” 

“And you succeeded. After all - was that not what you were sent here to do?” 

“No -” he whispered, feeling it all cave in around him.   
“I never meant for it to -”

And somehow, he knew. The pieces that had been lying there all along, finally fitted together.   
The pieces of two countries, each desperate to gain from one man’s fall from power. A broken alliance, restored again. The aristocracy would rule Hellas once more. And the war would be ended. 

He felt sick. 

A leader with an eye out on the storm - and he had been blind to it completely. 

“You have brought Troy our salvation at last,” Priam said, the glint of pride in his eyes. 

Once, he would have knelt in deference to receive it. Now - he was forced once more to see the world the way it really was.


	34. Chapter 34

They sat in a circle, another sleepless night behind them. He had his head in his hands, wishing that perhaps he had imagined it all.   
But that didn’t explain the past few hours, how he had frantically described what had happened.   
He felt terrible about it - Glaucus and Diomedes looked rough, and they had come home to that barren apartment - only to be intercepted by him, in a panic after his encounter with Priam. 

“The _king_?” Glaucus had questioned, incredulous.   
He’d had to sit down, running his fingers through his hair, trying to comprehend what it was Patroclus was saying.   
“The king wants Achilles dead?” 

“It makes sense,” Diomedes grunted, after some thought. 

“ _Does_ it?” Glaucus demanded, still unable to wrap his head around it. 

“Who stands to benefit the most from an assassination?” Diomedes reasoned. 

“But our king has never had anything to do with Achilles!” Glaucus protested. 

It was true. Priam had always been a subordinate of sorts to the mightier Hellas, during the reign of the Atreidae and beyond. Patroclus had been sent to Hellas in the first place as an act of deference, an unwillingness to go against the new ruler. 

But seven years of civil war, and no way out. Meanwhile, the nobility in Hellas grew increasingly dissatisfied with their leader. 

At some point, Priam had seen an opportunity. And he’d taken it. 

Patroclus recognized the exact moment Glaucus realized this for himself. 

“Shit,” the other man said.   
“If they kill Achilles and let the aristocrats take over, Hellas will lend its troops to Troy. And the war _will_ be won. The gods know Achilles would have never done the same. I’m just surprised someone else didn’t think of it. Prince Hector, perhaps -” 

“Your king is desperate to keep his throne,” Diomedes cut in.   
“Just because he is old and weary does not mean he is weak.”

They lapsed into silence. 

“I wonder who is in league with him,” Patroclus voiced. “It can’t be all of them.” 

“If it _is_ the entire aristocracy, Achilles would already be dead,” Diomedes affirmed. 

“They already failed once.” 

It must have been luck, that there had been loyal men ready to lay down their lives for Achilles among the others. 

But how could they separate the two? 

Finding out could take months. They would need to use all the resources they had. Achilles did not have months. 

And _still_ he was trying to convince himself that there was some unnamed protection, some shield over Achilles, infallible until they were ready to face the dangers. 

The truth was, he was already in danger. Every day at the house, with guards outside who could have been faithful Hellenes or treacherous supporters of the nobility - every day his life hung on a thread threatening to be cut loose. 

“Patroclus,” Diomedes said, sounding tired.   
“He came all the way to see you in _person_. Does that not send a message?”

He couldn’t answer. The horror of it had struck him in that moment, but after Priam had left him, it had faded away as though a mere daydream. 

“To risk stepping foot on Achilles’s territory, he had to be very confident of success. Your king believes he has already won.” 

The words sent a shiver down Patroclus’s spine. 

“Has he?” he asked, the question coming out in a whisper. 

What was going to happen to all of those people? If everything Achilles had built collapsed around them - if the aristocracy resumed power. 

He had been ready to believe Priam that war in Troy could be ended. It was what he had hoped for, over the years. 

Troy, the land of his birth. Troy, which he had been tasked to protect. 

But in doing so he had failed the country he had come to call home. He had failed to foresee the consequences of his own actions.

It was a time where loyalties could not have been more divided. Brother against brother, neighbor against neighbor. He thought of Second Lieutenant Stratichus, an aristocrat who had joined Achilles’s army with no apparent reason other than a love for his country. 

Achilles’s revolution had fought to dissolve the lines between the noble and the common, had tried to achieve a land where the people were not separated by status.   
And now - it was truly not status that divided them, but something else, driven by beliefs that had been shaped in the past years. 

And it was something else that threatened to tear him one way or another. He knew he had a duty. 

But he had given his life to the people, the country he had grown to love. Did it mean he had turned his back on Troy? Did it mean he was no better than the men and women who had turned against Achilles, after pledging fealty to his service?   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He’d been wringing his hands over the next course of action. 

Just when Achilles had agreed to work with him - but it was no use agonizing over it now. The truth was, he knew what he had to do.   
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lights over the water - he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it. The magnolia trees and the herb-sweet scent of still nights, remembered only in a haze. 

He still wasn’t a very good swimmer. This time of year when the current was the strongest, when the river reached high tide until its stream lapped at the bank. Just one other thing that had made him forget about the city, about busy streets and schemes behind closed doors. 

The heart of House Pelides had always been its untouchable state - for a long time, he had believed that. From every neat shelf to the last polished tile; and all the way out here, in the crossroads of garden that had given him refuge for the better part of his Hellene life. 

He’d had to watch as that belief cracked away like fragile glass on a mirror - each shard falling off the surface. The shard of House Pelides the untouchable, the shard of Achilles the untouchable. 

Even in his most triumphant days, he had never truly believed Achilles could be defeated. It was not just luck, it was not just cunning. It seemed a vision like what he had, a vision of the good and beautiful Hellas, was god-touched. 

And a man with such a vision could not possibly fall. 

But now Patroclus saw; holy or godless, Achilles was only a man. Everything he had feared about him, was also a reason to fear for him. And he had come to the conclusion that no decision was insignificant. 

Even an ill-made one by a Trojan king, could be enough to undo the man he had thought would outlast every strike. 

Ruling a country was like having a blade to the throat, Achilles had once said. 

Patroclus touched his own, where the metal had nicked him and healed over. 

Some wounds did not heal. They kept bleeding, and bleeding, because the cut was too deep. 

Perhaps that was what had happened, while Achilles wasn’t looking. Perhaps he’d received a mortal wound when he was paying attention to the wrong thing. 

It had been Patroclus’s task to pay attention _for_ him. Two pairs of eyes, one on the horizon and the other on their backs. When he had gone away, Achilles struggled. And so the strike had been made, in that moment of blind confusion. 

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen that face,” came a voice, and he didn’t have to turn around. Even now he was still used to the man coming up behind him with no warning. 

How similar Achilles looked to that night in Laconia, he thought. Watchful and serene behind the brush, his hunter’s gaze overlooking the deer. Bow drawn, arrow poised to release. 

The whites of his eyes so stark against darkened features. 

What did hunters do when they faced greater predators?

“Just because I’ve learned how to look brave -” Patroclus started, unwilling to break the quietness -   
“doesn’t mean I really am.” 

Achilles gave him a look that he didn’t know how to read. 

“I told you not to be afraid for me.” 

“What should I feel, then?” Patroclus questioned. 

He turned to face Achilles, if only to find consolation that he was present and whole. 

“Perhaps I should be glad. Perhaps I should be grateful that the war really will end, if I have really done as Priam has said I have done.”

“Aren’t you?” Achilles asked, softly. 

How many nights had he sat vigil in Hestia’s underground temple? How many nights had he prayed by the light of the candles? All for salvation, for his own people, for the ones he could not help, being so far away. 

As he and Briseis had agreed on; the gods granted wishes, but not without a price.

And it would all be over. He could return home as the kind of man he’d never imagined himself to be, a man constructed only in tales told to children at bedtime. 

“You would return hailed as a hero,” Achilles went on, as though sensing his thoughts.   
“Mothers and infants in the streets, waving roses at the one who made it possible.” 

“Did it happen to you once?” Patroclus asked, stricken. 

It made Achilles smile, even though there was no joy in it. His eyes glossed over as though glimpsing something far away. 

“Tell me what to do,” Patroclus relented, finding Achilles’s sides and catching hold of him - something only a secret part of himself had wanted to do, ever since the first moment when he had felt them drifting apart. 

It snapped Achilles back to the present, a frown appearing on his face as he carefully returned Patroclus’s touch. 

“You said that time would show me. And it has,” Patroclus said, voice catching in his throat like glass. 

“I said that in anger,” Achilles replied.   
He reached up and swept the stray hair from Patroclus’s forehead.   
“I said that in fear of losing you.” 

“But it’s true, what the king said. It doesn’t matter what I did it for - and it can’t be erased.”

“Would you erase it?” Achilles asked.   
He looked hard at Patroclus, eyes pinning him with their stare.   
“If you could go back in time, would you really have done it differently?” 

Patroclus frowned, mulling it over. Perhaps once he would have said that he didn’t have a choice. But there was always a choice. And he had made his - he had traveled down the path of resistance, his heart set. 

“I didn’t -”

“You fought for what you believed in,” Achilles cut in.   
“And I can spend a million years hating what you did, blaming you for it - and pointing my finger at the outcome.”

“You can blame me,” Patroclus breathed out.  
“I wouldn’t hold it against you if you blamed me.” 

“You have no idea how much I have allowed anger to govern my every decision. That day at the duel - when we spoke - I think I finally realized I could let go of it. That you going away had taught me something.”

“I’m so tired of choosing,” Patroclus sighed, and leaned his head against Achilles’s chest.   
“You don’t know how many times I wished for you to come and tell me I didn’t need to anymore.”

“I’m not that man,” Achilles answered. 

“I know.” 

“You wouldn’t have loved me if I was.” 

It made him look up, searching for the truth in Achilles’s words. 

If Achilles had been someone different - if he’d been an Achilles from Somewhere, an Achilles without a cause - would it ever have been this way? 

Perhaps they would never have known each other at all. And the thought of it - he could not even fathom. 

One hand reached into his pocket, curling around the silver ring and its familiar smoothness. He had spent the better part of the evening so sure at what he would do - he hadn’t even realized he had been waiting for Achilles. 

Achilles found Patroclus’s hand and wrapped his own fingers around it, drawing it out so that the ring shone in the sparse light. They stared at it for a moment, the twin swords of Troy.

“I meant to send it back to the king,” Patroclus quavered.   
“Then he would know where it is I really stand.” 

Achilles said nothing. He was looking at Patroclus like something fading out of his sight. His fingers tightened around Patroclus’s, their calluses brushing against the lines in his palm. 

“You know the answer is simple,” he said, when the silence had stretched out for so long Patroclus thought he wouldn’t speak again. 

“No,” Patroclus objected, shaking his head. 

He had been counting, counting on Achilles to say one thing. Not this. 

“You have to go back to Troy.” 

“ _No_. I’m not going.” 

“I will tell you what will happen if you do not go.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Patroclus let out, feeling his head growing light.   
“It doesn’t matter anymore.” 

“It _matters_ ,” Achilles lashed back, voice as sharp as a whip.   
“Do you think your king does this without anticipating the future? He _knows_ what will win him the throne. He has told a story, of a youngest son who went across the border to save Troy from misfortune.”

“It’s only a story,” Patroclus countered.   
“It’s a story about Paris, and it isn’t true because I’m _not him_.”

“You underestimate the power that comes with owning a name,” Achilles stated.   
“He gave it to you. And with that, he can change the narrative as much as he pleases.”

“So he told the aristocracy it was his son behind it all along, his son who paved the way for your ruin. And they were foolish enough to believe him.” 

“Regardless, they believed him. And if you do not return to Troy, if their plans fail - that story can be turned against you. Who do you think this will fall on? Do you think Priam will absolve you when his plans rest entirely on your actions against me?” 

Achilles was gripping Patroclus hard now, trying to get him to understand. 

“He can say you are a _traitor_. He can denounce you as his son. And then he would be free from all fault, for the aristocracy only needs one person to take the fall if things don’t go as planned.” 

“... And if I do as he says?” Patroclus asked weakly. 

He didn’t need to ask. They both knew it was the surest path to go. He had only to obey Priam’s orders, and he would return to Hellas the celebrated, faithful son. He had only to obey, and Achilles would have a chance to recuperate on his own, fully aware of the threat. 

And perhaps there would be hope of changing the future after all. 

Achilles would not be alone, he had to remind himself.   
Achilles had toppled an entire royal house. He was adept at observing the enemy. And he had dealt with scheming nobles before. He was not a man undeserving of faith. 

Even then, Patroclus’s heart and mind would not give up their battle. It was the wise decision, no matter how much he didn’t want to admit it. 

“I have broken your trust in more ways than one,” Achilles allowed, touching his face.   
“I know it is too much to ask for it again.” 

“Don’t ask me to go,” Patroclus pleaded, because this time, he did not have the strength to resist. How could he turn the ship around, when the current rushed one way? 

But Achilles was asking him to trust him one last time. And despite everything - he could give him that. 

“You were a worthy opponent,” Achilles said, taking Patroclus’s chin so they were eye to eye. The side of his lip quirked up in a small smile.   
“Perhaps I never told you that.” 

“I never wanted to be. I only wanted to be by your side.” 

“Who’s to say it won’t happen again?” Achilles responded, this time a full smile taking place.   
His thumb stroked Patroclus’s jaw, and he pulled him forwards.  
“I will see you off. Tell your king you will go on your own terms.” 

He clutched at the silver ring still in his hand, which he had wanted to send back as a statement. Now, it seemed, he would deliver it in person. 

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he frowned, because he didn’t. It was one thing to take up arms against a greater power. It was another to admit defeat and return with his head held high. 

“We met before there was war. And I know we will meet again, after.” 

“How can you know that?” he asked.

“Because you told me so, a long time ago.”   
And Achilles kissed him, lips drawing the breath from his own - the kind of kiss that seemed to steal a part of him away.   
“Remember?”   
He kissed him again.   
“Patroclus.” 

He remembered, of course he did. 

And he grieved, for his past self who had not known they were words to be lived on. 

He had once wondered if they had never been meant to be together - if it had only been thoughtless luck.   
Perhaps it was something else - perhaps they had been meant only to live alongside each other on the dark road, nothing but a distant knowledge that they would reach the other side someday. 

“I will see you then,” Patroclus got out, finally, feeling something inside him break as he said it. 

“You will,” Achilles replied, holding him until they were pressed together.   
“My brave, beautiful love. You will.”  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lost things, little things. Forgotten at the back of a drawer. 

His map of Hellas, spreading as far out as the mind could reach, and when he closed his eyes he saw each region as it was. The dotted lines between pathways were only imaginary. They sunk out of sight, leaving behind fronds of grass, flattened where the feet trekked. 

He had wished to see all of Hellas. And he almost had. He almost had. 

But like his unadulterated adoration of the land, it was never-ending, and how could a person see all there was in one lifetime? 

His fingers rifled around, brushing against the bare wood of the drawer. Stopping only when they met smooth silk, drawing back to pull out the crumpled length of a ribbon, its color richer than the sky. 

An unused wish, a child’s fantasy of old world magic. He weaved it through his fingers, smiling a little at the spark of memory it brought. If Elis could be inhaled in doses - then this was his. 

He didn’t know what made him slip it into his pocket. So lightweight he would forget that it was there - perhaps even lose it. 

Perhaps it was his nature to hold on to things most in danger of slipping away.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Three men and a dog. 

A picture of restrained solemnity within the walls, hiding them away from cheerful sun. Such was the way final meetings went. 

But he chased the word from his mind. It dampened his spirits, and this was not how he wanted it to be. 

He had grown up knowing friendship in small doses. He had ended up in a place where it was absolute. 

“If you change your mind …” Diomedes started. He shook his head, grimacing.   
“We’ll be here.” 

It was so much to ask them to stay. Glaucus, an exile, had no choice. But Diomedes had a son abroad - and still he had chosen to remain by Achilles’s side, to serve as Patroclus’s eyes on the other man’s back - to protect him, where Patroclus couldn’t.

One never knew where loyalty came from. But it was not the sort of loyalty bought from the keeping of a child. 

“For the record,” Diomedes continued.   
“I think you’re doing the right thing.” 

Patroclus did not answer, did not know how to. He had wondered if Diomedes would resent him for leaving them behind, if the man would take it as a personal betrayal. For one could not set off for Troy without turning his back on Hellas. 

“Don’t say that,” Patroclus finally said. 

He kept thinking about the letter he had written to Priam. How he had requested to return, on his own, without the king’s retinue to accompany him. At the time it seemed like the only way to retain his autonomy, some false independence in the face of an unceasing order. 

Now it only seemed like defeat. 

And Diomedes was the sort of man who could see right through him, would be able to taste his defeat. He had been ashamed of himself and what his friend would say to him. 

“I’m not one to offer false hope,” Diomedes replied.   
“I can’t promise that I won’t lose my temper and end up murdering Achilles before the assassins even have a chance to reach him. But … he and I were brothers once. And now I do this because you have faith that I can, and to me, it is worth it.”

It was the only reassurance Diomedes would ever give. It did not promise foolproof protection. But it was more than Patroclus could have asked for. 

Glaucus, who had been quiet the entire time, perked up. 

“We know how to do our job, Patroclus!”

“I know you do,” Patroclus answered.

“Those assassins won’t stand a chance! Stupid motherfuckers, we’ll string them up by their toes and make sausages from their guts if they even try to -”

“Well …” Patroclus interrupted. “I’m not sure if it would come to that …”

“If they even try to _touch_ Achilles we will break their bones and make a broth out of it -”

“Glaucus,” Patroclus tried to get his attention. 

Glaucus stopped his tirade.   
“Sorry,” he muttered.   
“Prison has changed me.”

“You were only in there a few days!” 

Glaucus smiled sheepishly. He was doing his best to keep himself composed, but Patroclus could see the uncertainty behind his eyes.   
All this time, and the other man had found a purpose. Now he was doing this not because he had ever supported Achilles, but because he wouldn’t turn his back on Patroclus. 

“Will you see me?” Patroclus asked. 

Glaucus looked up at him, puzzled. 

“If I can get the king to lift your exile. Will you come see me in Troy someday?” 

Glaucus didn’t seem to be able to answer for a moment. Then he gave a watery smile.   
“Oh, Patroclus.” 

It was too hopeful a question, even for Glaucus. 

“You better get packing,” Diomedes said gruffly, not one for sentimental partings.   
“Achilles will have the horses ready by daybreak.” 

He didn’t want to think of it. But at least it would not be goodbye yet, not until they reached the southern region, where Achilles had promised to see him off.  
And then they would part ways. For good, he didn’t know.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When he was little, he would scramble out of bed as soon as the lights were out - pulling back the curtains to catch a glimpse of the night sky and the dark strip of trees below. 

He had been afraid and eager, if both emotions could co-exist, back when fear had only been some distant calling and not a creature of true threat. He’d been able to hear his mother’s last hums trailing out the door, and they stilled in his mind as though the melody found a life of its own. 

And he would stare at those trees, crooked branches made bare in the winter, bowing with leaves in the summer. 

The tree maiden song. He had so wanted it to be real. 

His eyes blurred with colored picture book illustrations, meeting the land out beyond - the veil between reality and dream stretched as thin as it would allow. 

It was funny how he remembered this more than his mother herself. People left something behind, a mark on the mind; a tip of the page dog-eared where the crease would never flatten again. 

Even when he couldn’t picture her face, had forgotten what it was like to be a beloved child - when he heard the song, he remembered what he had felt at that moment in time. 

That same fear, weighing down on his heart. That same exhilaration, eyes on the trees and waiting for the slightest movement. That childlike belief that music was only truth, and if he looked long enough he would see the tree maiden emerge from her trunk and dance the night through. 

Her footsteps created the shadows. Her fingers trailed the wind. And he often forgot the difference between that creature made of myth, and who his mother had been. Sometimes he confused the two. 

When he looked long and hard enough, he could almost smell her perfume, and how it mingled with the scent of the magnolia. He could feel her lips on his forehead, not as they had been, but how he had conjured them to exist in the present. 

He had never been able to explain why he loved music. It was the same reason why he had never been able to explain that small skip in his pulse every time he heard a familiar note, imperfect as it was in his playing. 

There were songs of losing and loving. There were songs that captured someone’s moments, whatever way they could be breathed to life again. And that song had been perfect for his mother, because for the span of a split second - he could almost remember her love for him, on that night, when she had kissed him and hummed her way out the door, and he had sprung out of bed to see if her story was true. 

He was never sure if the memory was a real one. But he had chosen to live with it. And he had chosen to play her song again, imperfectly rendered with inexperienced hands. But wasn’t that the way it went? 

He couldn’t play like she had sung. He couldn’t go back to that night. But just when the right note hit, there was the ghost of her, and his pulse skipped. 

No wonder Orpheus had been able to enchant the dead, he thought. 

He sat on the piano bench and closed his eyes, reveling in the darkness for the time being.   
\---

When he opened his eyes again the ballroom was warmly lit. It made his eyes tire a little from its brightness, so many flickering lights in every corner. He’d once lain on the floor and examined the ceiling frescoes the same way he would have the constellations. 

The painted figures had seemed to smile down at him, and it was a similar feeling now. 

“Where’s my Trojan national anthem?” Achilles asked, leaning against the wood.   
“I have been waiting seven years for it, you know.” 

A startled laugh escaped him before he could control it. 

That old joke between them, that he had not thought to hear again. 

“Where’s my flying song?” 

“Didn’t anybody tell you it has gone out of fashion?”

Achilles smiled and watched him, exactly the same way he had done all those years ago. Yet the conspiracy in his smile could now be called knowledge - the curiosity in his eyes clouded with both weariness and that eternal conviction that could only be his. 

All the things he was, Patroclus thought. 

A still-youthful face, age creeping up at the edges. A still-beautiful soul, marred by ugliness in unexpected crevices. A constant battle between both. 

He remembered his mother the way one remembered a myth, too faraway to hold shape. He knew Achilles as everything he was, too real to cast from the senses. Even when he closed his eyes he still saw him. One could not always rely on reflections, after all. 

When the humor died away, they did not have much at all to say to one another. Conversations were only temporary.   
But the bench dipped beside him, and Achilles’s fingers rested on the keys where his had been just a minute ago.   
Long and elegant, the crowning glory of a virtuoso pianist. 

Some men were born with all gifts. 

Others, like himself - they got by. 

He turned to study Achilles’s profile. He felt the seconds fly by. 

“I don’t feel like playing,” Achilles said. 

“Don’t need to,” Patroclus replied. 

They sat together, companionable, silent. 

Outside, the grass swayed in the soft breeze. 

Achilles suddenly met his eyes, and coming to the surface was that slow hint of amusement, as he was prone to.   
“Another secret?” 

“I was wondering when you would tell me,” Patroclus smiled, feeling his chest release. 

Achilles shifted closer and leaned against him, their sides pressed together.   
He didn’t speak for a moment.   
“If this were the last night of the world -”

And it very well could have been. The empty ballroom. The bright lights. The absolute quiet. If it were all to end here, he didn’t think he would be sorry. 

“I wouldn’t change a thing.” 

It was some way for his heart to settle, hearing that. 

“It’s funny,” he said. “I was thinking the same thing.” 

Achilles brought his arm around him. 

They watched as some of the lights burned out by themselves.

Then Achilles stood up, and offered his hand.   
“I want to dance with you.”

Patroclus looked back at him.   
“Without any music?”

Achilles leaned his head back and laughed.   
“Hasn’t there been enough in this room for a lifetime?” 

And it was true. 

“Come on,” he insisted.   
“Last one.” 

“I don’t know if I can,” Patroclus murmured, eyes stinging a little, even though some part of him was laughing along.   
Back then, it had been because he didn’t know how. Now he did. But the two figures sweeping across the ballroom … an image both painful and sweet. 

“I don’t want to live in the past,” Achilles said, seeing right through him.   
“I want a new memory. With you.”

After all this time, if they could - 

“Alright,” Patroclus said, before he could stop himself. 

And he was steady in Achilles’s arms again, their perfect frames and footwork gliding over the polished floor. 

“You should have told that cellist with the big mustache to come,” he grumbled, and it made Achilles chuckle. 

The lamps slowly went out, after burning so long. 

“Love you,” he said, right in Achilles’s ear. 

Achilles said nothing, but all the sorrow left his smile for that passing second.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Three men and a dog. 

Two horses, outside. 

“Well,” said Diomedes, crossing his arms and giving Patroclus a once-over.   
“Stay hydrated. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”   
He nodded, as though to himself. Patroclus got the sense the man was terrible at goodbyes.   
“Godspeed.” 

Then he turned and went back into the house, not one to linger and rub it in. 

Now it was just him and Glaucus. 

“Look how much that horse is shitting!” Glaucus exclaimed. 

“Why would I want to -”

“Oh gods, the smell!” 

“Glaucus,” Patroclus sighed. 

Glaucus finally looked at him, grin fading by the inch.   
“Alright. I guess this is it.” 

“We’ll be seeing each other. It’s not forever.” 

Another _till we meet again_. One day, he was going to run out of those. 

“I’m definitely not jealous you’re going on a ship. I’m afraid of water, you know.” 

“I know,” Patroclus said, fondly. 

Then Glaucus’s face fell.   
“I’m going to miss you so much.” He pulled Patroclus into an embrace. 

Just then, he couldn’t quite bear to part ways. 

“Take care of them,” he muttered, because he knew Glaucus would.   
“And don’t eat too much of that soup. It upsets your stomach.” 

Glaucus swiped at his eyes and stepped away, determined to stay until the last moment. 

He tried to smile at him even as he and Achilles checked their horses for the last time. He tried not to look too long at House Pelides, which he had only just returned to and now had to leave again. 

Would he ever see it again? he wondered. Would he ever see these people again?

“Paris!” called Chryseis, and came running out of the house with their food packs. 

“It’s a long way to the southern harbor,” she observed, helping him strap everything properly in place. 

It was going to be a few days on their fastest horses, even traveling inconspicuously. All roads leading out of Hellas had been closed in the past few days.   
Nobody in, nobody out.   
So the last resort was water. And he had never been to the south. 

She stood back and smiled at him, and it was only a little wistful.   
“Imagine going off and seeing the ocean. You’ll have to enjoy it for me.” 

“I won’t take my eyes off it,” he said. 

He wished he could muster a proper goodbye. He hadn’t actually been able to say the word. It was like giving up on a wish. 

Chryseis looked at him like she knew exactly what he was thinking.   
“Sometimes the hard way is the way to go.”

He nodded. He had spent so long questioning himself, so long doubting. When the time came, he would do what was needed. 

“I trust you’ll find a way back to us,” Chryseis added, taking his hand. 

“I don’t know about that,” he whispered. 

“Don’t you always?” Chryseis asked. She smiled again.   
“And if you fail, you’ll try again the next day. And the next.” 

“My name isn’t Paris,” he blurted out, looking her in the eye. If anyone deserved to know, it was her.   
“It’s Patroclus.” 

“It was a joy to meet you then,” Chryseis replied, not missing a beat, turning her hand so their palms were together and it was as though she were shaking his hand.   
“And it will be a joy, the next time.” 

She must have known, in her own way. But with Chryseis, it was hard to tell. 

Suddenly, he wasn’t so afraid anymore. 

“Goodbye, Chryseis.” 

There had been greetings and farewells between them. What was another, if not proof that it had happened, that these people had been a part of his life? 

He mounted his horse, held himself steady in his saddle. 

He would not fall over, not this time. 

It was no dream. And he did not have to look from the corner of his eye to catch the second rider beside him. 

He gave them one last wave, allowing himself that final picture of the house that he hadn’t let himself take in the last time. 

Achilles drew up next to him, their horses parallel to each other, face as serious as it was with a task ahead of them. 

“Ready?” he asked. 

And they rode.


End file.
